Snowbird
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. When Allan Jones saved Matt Williams' life, he promised that they would be together forever. Fast-forward two years: Matt is stuck in an increasingly abusive relationship that he can't escape; sinking deeper and deeper. Then he meets Gil Beilschmidt—a wannabe musician with a fetish for playing knight-in-shining-armour—who develops a serious crush on the victimized boy.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

DON'T EVER drink & drive.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Mathew Williams

2P!AMERICA — Allan Jones

AMERICA — Alfred Jones

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

AUSTRIA — Roderich Edelstein

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **ROCHESTER, NEW YORK**

 **SPRING 2012**

Matt looked down at his brave lover, lying helplessly in a hospital bed in a drug-induced coma. Allan's darkly sun-kissed skin was sickly pale, his rich-auburn hair was obscured by the cloth bandages wrapped delicately around his head, strong body sunken and hands lying lifelessly on the mattress. This wasn't the cocky, self-confident Allan that Matt knew. This fragile boy looked like an injured soldier, fighting death; he looked weak. And it was entirely Matt's fault.

Allan had let Matt drive his truck down the back-roads, both of them laughing and fooling around in the cab. Matt could still feel Allan's whispered lips against his ear and the way his heart fluttered when Allan's hand touched his thigh. It had been exhilarating, a forbidden feeling shared in secret. Then suddenly the old rust-bucket of a truck stalled-out and the engine died. Matt couldn't stop so he swerved to the right, panicking. The truck sprayed up a cloud of red dust and the tires screamed on the gravel, going too fast. The windshield busted as the truck crashed to a stop, propelling Matt forward. Instinctively Allan threw himself protectively on Matt. Matt saw a bright flash of light and then nothing. Allan's painful scream was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness. It was tragic, but stupid (driving fast on the back-roads at night). Stupid teenagers, that's what they were. And now Allan was paying the price.

* * *

Matt cried in relief a week later when Allan finally opened his eyes. He was weak, dizzy and disoriented, and he could only stay conscious for short periods. The doctor reported that Allan had suffered physical trauma and brain-damage, the extent of which was still unknown, but at least he was alive. He would recover and his broken body would heal.

Matt hugged and kissed his lover, feeling shaken, selfishly wanting to draw comfort from the strong-willed American, the boy who had always protected him. Allan held Matt, examining the evidence of the crash on his winter-white skin: his bruised body, the cut on his cheek, his sprained wrist, and the fear in his big, long-lashed violet eyes.

He said: "Don't cry, baby-doll. I'm alright." His thumbs caught Matt's tears, wiping them off. And he pressed a chaste kiss to the boy's lips. "I love you, Mattie," he said soberly. "Promise that you won't ever leave me."

"I promise," said Matt gratefully. "I love you too."

* * *

 **AUTUMN**

Mattie, you're my best friend," said Alfred seriously. They were sitting in a quiet café. It was a lovely atmosphere but Alfred's face looked haunted. He shifted in discomfort, fingering the paper-cup of black coffee in front of him, but he soldiered on: "And as your friend, I really don't want to see you get hurt. I don't want to see you waste your life, not going to school and stuff. It's unfair and..." He paused. "I know you're in love, but please don't move in with Allan."

Matt blinked, taken aback. He and the Jones' twins, Allan and Alfred, had been best friends since childhood; they had grown-up as neighbours. As children they had done everything together and as teenagers Allan's confession of love to Matt had only brought them closer. Alfred had approved of them being together then, so why was he apprehensive about it now? _Is it because high-school is over_ _now_ ( _our childhood)_? "Al, I don't think—"

"Something's wrong with Allan," said Alfred. "Ever since the accident he's been different, moodier. He's not just the delinquent he was before. Now he's... he's kind of scaring me," he admitted. "Haven't you noticed a change?"

Matt twisted a curl around his index finger, avoiding eye-contact. In truth, he _had_ noticed a change in his lover's demeanor but was loath to admit it. _Because it's my fault_. _I was driving the truck_ , _he got hurt protecting me_. Evasively, he said: "He's still healing. It was traumatic, it'll take time before he's back to normal. I'm not just going to leave him because he's unwell. I love him—"

"I know," Alfred interjected. "I do too. I hate myself for accusing him: my twin-brother, the crash victim. I'm a jerk, I know! But I can't shake the feeling that something is _really_ wrong with him." In example he pointed to his English boyfriend standing in the café's queue. "He's never liked Artie, but since the accident he's been openly hostile toward him. Things he never would've voiced before he just yells, and they're stupid things. He's always on-edge, like he can't relax. Yesterday he accused Artie of _breathing too loud_ , then, when we laughed, he lunged at us like he really wanted to hurt us." Alfred's blue eyes portrayed—not worry, but—outright fear, afraid for Arthur's safety.

Matt shook his head. "Allan would never hurt me. He saved my life. I'm not going to abandon him now that he needs me. This is just a phase, it'll pass."

Alfred swallowed. "I hope you're right."


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **ONE**

 **ROCHESTER, NEW YORK**

 **SUMMER 2014**

I hate people, fucking jack-offs," Allan complained. He let the front door slam behind him, kicked off his steel-toed work boots and threw his jacket over a kitchen chair as he sunk into it. "If I was a smoker I'd have smoked a whole fucking carton today," he groaned, leaning back. "How hard is it: Don't touch the horses?! There's even a fucking sign, but people are idiots. I'm glad that brat got bit. Hey, doll-face— what am I, invisible? No welcome home kiss?"

"Sorry, love. I'm just distracted," said Matt. He leaned down and kissed Allan's cheek in passing, but the American wasn't satisfied. He grabbed the Canadian-born around the waist and lifted Matt onto his lap.

"Well un-distract yourself," he said, burying his face against Matt's neck, inhaling. "I'm gone for most of the day earning a fucking wage, you can spare me a minute when I get home." He lifted his head and pulled a handful of Matt's curls back until they faced each other, then kissed him deeply. Matt let Allan's tongue into his mouth, sucking on it. His lips tasted like chili-peppers and sweat. "It was hot today. I need a shower," Allan suggested, slipping his hands beneath Matt's t-shirt. "C'mon," he lifted Matt, walking him backwards down the hallway to the washroom. At the entrance Matt stopped, bumping chests with Allan. He held his hands against his lover's broad chest and looked up at him, relaying kindness, but:

"You go ahead, I'm not—"

"Hey, I worked all day so we could make rent this month; so you can live here and not on the fucking street sucking cock for a living. The least you can do is let me fuck you in the shower."

"But, Al, I was thinking—"

" _Pft_ , of course you were, doll."

"—you wouldn't have to work such long hours if I got a job. Then we could share the expenses and I could—"

"No."Allan's tone was inarguable, a low warning. "I don't want you working. I told you I'd always take care of you, didn't I? Am I not doing a good enough job?"

"Yes, love. You know that's not what I meant," Matt tried in appeasement. "I just thought it would be easier on you if we shared the workload. You wouldn't be so tired all the time, you could relax—"

"I'll relax," he said, forcing Matt into the washroom, "after I've fucked my lover in the fucking shower."

Meekly, Matt complied. He recognized the fiery glint in Allan's ruby-red eyes. He had thought them so pretty once—red was Matt's favourite colour—but now a dark threat lurked within them that frightened him. Allan's temper had always been intense, but he never used to attack in anger, just defense. Now he was unpredictable and Matt never knew what would set him off. Allan disliked disobedience from anyone but in Matt he found it absolutely intolerable. He was good at convincing Matt that he, in fact, was the one in the wrong; that he deserved punishment for it. He was good at making Matt feel guilty. And Matt was good at making excuses for Allan's behaviour. It had become routine to equivocate and stretch the truth and sometimes outright lie when Alfred or Arthur asked about it. He hated lying, but he was good at it: good at holding his tongue and keeping secrets. _It's worth it if I'm the only one getting hurt_ , he convinced himself. _Allan's not a bad person_ , _he's just unwell._ Deep down, however, he knew the truth: that Allan had changed. He was no longer the impassioned yet soft-hearted person he had once been, hot-headed and quick to start a fight in defense of his loved-ones. Now he picked fights specifically as an excuse to get physical and discipline Matt for resisting. He enjoyed tormenting Matt, he got off on it like a drug. And there was nothing Matt could do about it. Fighting back only encouraged him, but submitting was equally dangerous—and increasingly degrading. In the two years since they had been living together, since the accident, Matt had done many things that he was ashamed of (mostly of a sexual nature), things that pre-accident Allan would never have forced him to do. But now Allan only laughed and taunted Matt, using such things as ammunition to insult him with later.

 _He's just frustrated_. _It's not me_ , _something else is bothering him. He's tired and overworked_. _He had a bad day_. _He's depressed_. _He's drunk_. Matt knew he was living a lie but he couldn't—wouldn't—acknowledge that Allan didn't love him anymore, or, at the very least, that it had become a twisted, abusive love.

"Possessive," Alfred called it. "It's not healthy, Mattie. He's become demanding and paranoid, and he takes being jealous to a whole new level. He controls everything you do, like he owns you."

"I know," _but what am I supposed to do_? Matt was terrified of leaving, afraid of what Allan might do.

Allan Jones had become a _very_ dangerous man.

* * *

One day, lying together in bed, Allan said: "We're moving to Boston. I've got the chance to work as a vet-tech for a while and get certified hands-on, like an apprenticeship. It'll be good for us" (since neither of them had gone to post-secondary school). "If it works out I'll be able earn a lot more money, maybe even enough to go to veterinary school. What'd you say, doll?" He kissed Matt's temple. It was a courtesy that he asked. Matt knew that Allan had already decided, but he dared not reject the suggestion. Allan would only get angry and accuse Matt of not caring about their future together: " _Don't I deserve to have a job I actually like_? _Is it too much to want to be happy_?!"

Cautiously Matt feigned consideration: "Oh, Boston? That's six hours from here. Do you really want to move so far away? What about your family, what about Alfred?"

Matt felt sick at the thought of being separated from Alfred, his best friend, and isolated from everything and everyone that he knew; everything that was familiar. Alfred and Arthur's company—their kind, constant support—was often the only thing that kept Matt from completely breaking down. But in a big, foreign city he would have nobody to rely on except for Allan. His lover (jailor) would make sure of it.

"Alfred's an annoyance. And I hate that English, tea-fucker boyfriend of his. They're so nauseating together," Allan said, fingering Matt's curls. "Alfred used to be cool but now he's just that Englishman's fucking boy-toy. I won't miss them. Honestly, I don't know how you can stand to be around them," he added, yanking on a curl. Matt flinched.

 _Oh_ , _so that's the real reason we're going to Boston_ , he realized, feeling heartbroken. _Allan doesn't want me near Alfred and Arthur anymore._

"Well? Are you excited about moving to Boston?" he prompted, twisting Matt's curl indelicately.

 _No. I don't want to go. Please don't take me away from my home_ , _my friends_! Matt felt hot tears prick his eyes and turned his face away, afraid of showing his honest reaction. He wanted to flat-out refuse Allan's decision and tell him exactly why: that he was sick of just being Allan's pretty _doll_. Matt longed to yell and tell him exactly where he could go—alone. If he was bigger he might've even fought Allan, or at least had the courage to refuse him. He wanted to tell Allan that, just because he was physically bigger and stronger, he couldn't bully Matt into compliance. But Matt's lying in the bed beside him, stark-naked and exhausted, was testament to his weakness. _I don't want to go to Boston_! He felt helpless, a sick feeling. _If we move to Boston it'll never stop. There'll be no reprieve_ , _no Alfred to stop Allan's rage_ ; _no Arthur to console me and make me tea. I'll have nothing but Allan_.

"Matt?" Allan repeated, sounding impatient. Suspiciously he leaned toward Matt, trying to see his face.

 _I have to tell him. He'll be unhappy_ , _but if I can convince him to stay here then nothing will change. At least it won't get worse. I'll have my friends_ , _my home. He might understand._ It was risky, but: _I've at least got to try_!

* * *

I'm moving to Boston," Matt told Alfred and Arthur the next day. The bruise on his face was evidence of that fact. Unless he was shitfaced-drunk, Allan usually avoided Matt's face: he liked his pale-faced beauty to stay pretty, hiding signs of abuse. But Allan hadn't just been angry last night. He had been outraged by the Canadian's soft-spoken yet brazen refusal. And he had corrected Matt's misgivings about thinking he had a choice.

"You're _what_?!" Alfred dropped a cookie tin on the counter, scattering crumbs. "With Allan? Mattie, you can't go! You can't let him bully you into leaving—"

"I think you're twenty-four hours too late on the lecture, love," said Arthur. Gently he touched a witch-hazel-soaked cloth to Matt's discoloured cheek, treating the bruise. Matt flinched. "Sorry, mate."

"Then you've got to leave him!" Alfred urged. His blue-eyed gaze was pleading, begging Matt to reconsider. It was a terribly familiar sight. "I know he's my twin-brother, and deep down I still love him, but that doesn't change the fact that he belongs in a psychiatric hospital— or prison."

Matt sighed. "You're exaggerating, Al. I know Allan means well. He's only trying to take care of us, after all, in the only way he knows how. This is a really good opportunity for him career-wise. I can't _not_ support that he wants to make something more of his life. He's safe-guarding our future. And, who knows, maybe I can get a job in Boston," he said hopefully. He glanced between his friends, from Arthur—who nodded in feigned encouragement—to Alfred—who shook his head doubtfully. Matt steeled his resolve. "This could be good for us, a fresh start. I'll be fine," he lied.

* * *

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **SEPTEMBER**

It was late in the afternoon and Gil was dragging himself home from a gruelling three-hour lecture. It wasn't a long walk from the University's campus to the old house he and his roommates sublet, but his heavy duffle-bag weighed him down and he was tired. He hadn't been sleeping well, feeling unsettled at night. He yawned deeply, wiping tears of fatigue from his eyes, wishing that he didn't hate the taste of coffee. _I need a beer_ , he decided instead. He fished for his house-key, so preoccupied that he didn't see the boy until it was too late. " _Oof_ —" They collided, knocking the boy to the ground. The box he had been carrying hit the pavement and fell open, pelting him with books. In surprise Gil blinked, thinking: _Who the hell is this guy_? and simultaneously: _He's fucking gorgeous_! Recovering fast, he reached down and pulled the box off the boy. "Sorry, I didn't see you. I wasn't paying attention," he berated himself. "Here," he offered his hand chivalrously.

"No! I'm fine— sorry," he added softly. Meekly he crawled to his knees and started collecting books, keeping his head lowered. He was slight-figured (his clothes didn't fit him properly, too big), with porcelain-white skin, like a china-doll. He had long, pale-blonde curls that covered his face, and a slender neck ( _is that a hickey_?). He moved subtly, as if afraid to draw attention to himself. Gil watched him for a moment, hastily collecting books. When the boy lifted the box, however, the bottom fell out and everything emptied. He flinched, shoulders arched in mortification, but Gil only smiled. _This guy's fucking high-strung_ , he thought, kneeling down to help. "Thank-you," the boy said.

Gil looked from the loaded pickup-truck to the house. "Are you moving in?" he asked, stacking books.

The boy nodded: "Yes."

"You go to the University? Late-start?"

"No. I don't."

Gil waited for him to elaborate but he didn't. He glanced to the house and back, then stood holding an armful of books. Gil followed his lead. He said: "My roommates and I live in the basement. I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. And you are—?" he prompted, smiling in a friendly way. He paused on the doorstep.

Finally the boy lifted his face and looked at Gil and Gil's heartbeat skipped. "Matt Williams," he said, smiling shyly. His big, long-lashed violet eyes looked gentle. "Thank-you," he repeated, indicating Gil's assistance.

In an instant Gil had forgotten that he was holding fifty pounds of books. He just smiled, captivated by the boy's beauty and those sweet, innocent-looking eyes. He wanted to say something witty and confident in return, but all he managed was a breathless: " _Ja_ ," after which he cleared his throat and nodded to the house. "First-floor?" He followed Matt into the suite directly above his basement-apartment. It was brighter but less spacious: a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, lounge, and washroom. The laundry-room was a shared space in the hallway between the three apartments. The second-floor apartment (Gil nicknamed it _the penthouse_ ) was where the landlord lived. "So," he continued, placing the books on the coffee-table. "Are you moving-in here with your family, or roommates, or a girlfriend maybe—?" he fished subtly.

"Oh, no. It's just me and my—"

"Matt?" The growling voice belonged to a tall, broad-figured guy, who would've been much more attractive if he wasn't scowling. He had darkly-tanned skin (with several facial piercings), rich-auburn hair, and fierce red eyes. Gil had never met anyone else with red eyes before; he wondered if his own eyes looked as intimidating. Shamelessly the newcomer pulled Matt against his side, holding his waist. The boy looked down, blushing.

 _Oh_ , _so it's like that_ , Gil thought, feeling conflicted: hopeful that Matt fancied men, but disappointed that he was already taken. _Of course he's already taken_ , _just look at him_! Matt's pale cheeks were flushed, soft curls falling delicately into his face. Gil didn't realize that he was staring until the redhead said (rather rudely):

"Who're you?"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt. I'm a University student, I live downstairs."

"I'm Allan Jones," he said, extending his hand. Politely Gil took it, but Allan didn't let go. Eyeing Gil's duffle-bag, he asked: "What do you study?"

"Music. Mostly I'm a lyricist, but I play the drums, a little guitar— and the triangle," he attempted a joke.

Matt's lips curled into a shy smile, but Allan didn't waver. "So you're a musician then?" There was a note of unmasked suspicion—instant dislike—in his tone.

Gil shrugged: "Ja, I guess so." He felt the pressure on his hand increase as Allan squeezed it. Gil fought the urge to flinch. The guy was really strong. He was bigger than Gil; if not taller than bulkier (Gil was whiplash-lean). But he held the American's gaze, feigning nonchalance.

"You in a band?"

"Nein."

Finally, Allan let go. "Nice to meet you," he said, though his whole persona suggested otherwise. Throughout the exchange he hadn't released Matt, who now looked rather uncomfortable.

"Ja, you too." Feeling unwelcome, Gil excused himself and headed downstairs. He hadn't yet reached the apartment door, however, when he heard Allan's accusatory voice (it carried in the stairwell):

"An accident, huh? What'd you do, drop the box and then bend over?"

Matt's reply was too quiet to make out, but Allan sounded antagonistic. _What a dick_ , Gil thought in disbelief, shuffling inside. His roommates greeted him: Francis from the kitchenette, making popcorn, and Antonio from the lounge, lying over the futon on his belly with several films spread-out in front of him. Gil kicked off his shoes by the door and dropped his duffle-bag, habitually aligning both. Then he said: "Have either of you met the new neighbours yet? The—I want to say: couple—moving in upstairs?"

Francis' sapphire-blue eyes shifted to Antonio, who pretended not to notice. The Frenchman said: "Well we haven't officially been introduced, but earlier I ran into the redhead. He's kind of—"

"Ein dick?" Gil supplied. "His name's Allan Jones. I just had the displeasure of meeting him. He's definitely not a friendly. His, err... Matt seems pretty decent though."

"There are two of them?" Antonio glanced up, head cocked.

Francis said: "Obviously, Toni. He must be yelling at someone. He's so loud," he added in dismay, explaining to Gil: "We can hear him through the ceiling. If they're really a couple, as you've said, I sincerely hope that arguing is the only thing they do at such a loud volume." Despite the disturbance, Francis' lips curled into a suggestive smirk.

"Oh gut," said Gil sarcastically. "That's just what I need: to listen to other people fucking overhead while I'm not getting any." He flopped down in an old armchair dejectedly, sinking into the deflated cushion.

"Are you that hard-up? I told you I would set you up if you want," Francis offered, shaking popcorn into a bowl. "I know lots of people: girls, boys, both if you're feeling adventurous—?"

"Nein, I don't need a pity-date. And don't even argue," he added, interrupting Francis' protest, "that's exactly what they are. I'm always the fucking rebound. I appreciate the offer, Frenchie, but the kind of people who like you"—he gestured to tall, lean-figured Francis, with ash-blonde curls and pretty blue eyes; aristocratic in nature, who loved to spoil his dates and play prince-charming—"don't like me," he said, indicating himself: a loud-mouthed, red-eyed albino with a mild hero-complex and an unpredictable temper. "The last thing I want to do is waste a Saturday night talking to some bird about her ex-boyfriend. I'm not the consoling type."

"If you were just a little better at communicating, at listening—?" Francis suggested, offering the bowl.

Gil grabbed a handful of popcorn, and, mouth full, said: "Find me someone who actually has something interesting to say, who's actually worth it, and I'll listen."

As Antonio decided on a film, Gil's thoughts inadvertently wandered to his new upstairs neighbour: Matt. He was probably the most attractive person Gil had ever seen in real-life, _but_ _that doesn't make him interesting. Sure_ , _he laughed at my lame joke_ , _but he seems like the well-mannered type_. _He was probably just being polite_. And then there was Allan's tone to consider. Anyone who let himself be bullied into submission like Matt had was spineless in Gil's militant thinking. Self-importantly, he respected people with considerably more courage than what Matt had exhibited. Soft-spoken and avoiding eye-contact, it was painfully obvious that Matt lacked self-confidence. Gil wanted to think critically of the boy, undeserving of sympathy, but his big, violet eyes had looked so sad. It was hard to dislike a person who looked so genuinely _afraid_. Gil shook his head, unsure where that particular description had surfaced from. He tried to focus on the film Antonio had chosen, but he was fidgety. He was a high-energy person and was easily bored by films (especially foreign films with subtitles). "I'm going out," he said after a minute. His roommates barely acknowledged he had spoken.

Outside the breeze was deliciously cool, carrying the faint promise of rain. Gil stretched his stiff shoulders, cracking his back, then took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He leaned against the porch's railing and inhaled deeply on every long, blissful drag. The sunset looked like a giant red orb dipping below a surface of black silhouettes. His mind archived many thoughts as he smoked, but, without prompting, it kept returning to Matt.

 _He reminds me of a kicked-dog_ , _loyal to a fault_ , he observed.

Gil had grown-up on a military base in Germany. He had seen abuse many times before, and, whatever shape it took, he knew that it was ugly.

Just then the door swung open, clattering against the brick. Matt flinched in reflex, like a spooked fawn. He noticed Gil and apologized for—what? _What are you apologizing for_? _You've done nothing wrong_. Gil wanted to be annoyed with the boy, who was so skittish. He wanted to say something cocky in reply, but, before he could, he made the mistake of looking at Matt and found himself suddenly speechless. His chest tightened, and, when the boy smiled at him, his stomach flipped. Surprised by, and not entirely comfortable with, his own reaction, he just stared as Matt descended the front steps and smiled dumbly in return.


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **TWO**

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **OCTOBER 2014**

Gil was tuning his guitar's strings; Francis was studying; Antonio was mashing-up tomatoes in the kitchenette, making sauce. It was silent in the basement-apartment and all of them were pretending not to hear the violent row upstairs. Allan's furious voice seeped through the air-vents, accusing Matt of under-appreciating him; of flirting with other people; of vindictively spoiling his life (burning his supper). It was the third time in as many nights. The American was not subtle about his feelings. Since that first awkward meeting, Gil had only seen Matt once while collecting the post. The boy had smiled shyly in greeting and then ducked back inside before Gil could unhinge his tongue long enough to speak. He and Allan were a private couple unless Allan was feeling aggressive. Like now. Matt cried-out: a short, high-pitched yelp of pain. He was usually good at biting his tongue, concealing his voice when Allan physically attacked him. But Gil heard Francis' pencil lead snap, pressing too hard, and he knew that he wasn't the only one bothered by the one-sided domestic raging upstairs. When a ceramic-like shatter sounded he set aside his guitar and stood.

"That's it," he said, feeling defensive, "I'm going up there."

Francis stood just as quickly, but he said: "Gil, don't. You'll only make it worse, trust me."

"That guy's ficking abusive!" he snapped. "And his— Matt" (he hated calling Matt Allan's boyfriend, as if the timid blonde belonged to the angry American) "is getting hurt! Don't pretend you can't hear that," he said, pointing to the ceiling. "Toni?"

Antonio pursed his lips, then nodded. He cleaned his hands on a tea-towel and joined in Gil's protest. "Sí."

Francis sighed. "God help that boy if this makes it worse," he said, following his roommates out.

Gil leapt up the stairs in three long-legged strides and banged his fist on the apartment's door. For a minute it was silent, the commotion inside had ceased. Then Allan opened the door: " _What_?"

The red-eyed American was undeniably threatening, but Gil refused to be intimidated. He bawled his hands into fists, and asked: "Is everything okay in here? It sounds like there might be some kind of trouble?" He held Allan's contemptuous gaze, glaring back. He couldn't see Francis and Antonio standing on the stairs behind him, but he could feel the tension. Allan's eyes flickered to them unhappily. His shirtless, broad-shouldered bulk blocked Gil's view of the apartment, so he added: "Where's Matt?"

"None of your fucking business," said Allan. His posture was tense, like a cornered dog.

Gil started forward but Francis grabbed his shoulder in restraint. He said: "We heard a lot of noise, a crash."

"Yeah. Matt knocked a plate off the top shelf, he's pretty clumsy."

"I heard a scream," Gil challenged.

"It hit him on the way down. What, you don't believe me? Mattie," he called, cockily stepping aside. "The neighbours are concerned about your well-being, doll. Tell them what just happened."

Sheepishly Matt joined Allan in the doorframe. He was dressed in a hoodie too big for his frame, fidgeting at the sleeves. He tired to smile but it must have hurt: his left cheek was already bruising and scratched (in addition to his facial piercings, Allan wore a ring on his middle finger). "Oh, it's nothing," Matt said benignly. "It was really stupid of me, I was reaching for a plate and I slipped. It's not a pretty result," he added, gesturing to his face in lighthearted mockery. "I'm really sorry to have disturbed you."

Gil wished he could force Matt's head up to meet his gaze. He, Francis, Antonio, and Allan all knew his story was false. Matt was the only one who seemed capable of believing the lie, but since he was the victim there was little anyone could do in defense. Sternly Gil said: "You're _sure_ that's what happened?"

Matt nodded. Cattily Allan said: "Satisfied, Sherlock?" And he shut the door in Gil's face.

* * *

You shouldn't deliberately antagonize the neighbours," Matt dared.

"And you should keep your fucking mouth shut," Allan replied. "It's your fault they came up here, because you had to go and shriek like a little bitch."

"You hit me with a plate." _Though I think the ring did more damage._ Absently he touched his cut cheek.

"Yeah, well I was frustrated. You know I can't always control my temper so why do you provoke it?" He took Matt's chin in his hand and lifted his face, inspecting his handiwork. "It's not my fault you bruise so easily, baby-doll." He said it like a joke but his ruby-red eyes looked hungry. Gently he pressed his lips to the tender, purpling skin. Matt tried not to flinch. Allan chuckled. "I love how sensitive you are," he continued, slipping his hand beneath the waist of Matt's blue-jeans. He cupped Matt's bare buttocks and drew him closer. "You're so fucking soft. You know I'd never really hurt you, right Mattie?"

Matt turned his head, letting Allan suck on his neck. His chest felt heavy. He held his breath.

Twenty minutes later he was lying beside Allan in bed, listening to the redhead snore soundly. He would've gotten up and had a shower, brewed something hot to drink in comfort, but Allan was hugging his waist from behind and Matt dared not wake him. So he laid in the dark silence, which smelled heavy with post-sex: semen and sweat. He could feel Allan's sticky seed on his thighs, running down his legs and soaking into the bed-sheets. It made him feel dirty. Cold. Matt's skin prickled with goose-bumps and he shivered.

Matt thought of the night's encounter and what might've happened if his neighbours had entered, uninvited, a few minutes sooner. It would've been ugly, Allan didn't like people getting in the way of his fun. _He would've lashed-out at them_ _and tried to hurt them. And worse_ , _he would've thought that he was justified in doing so_ , _protecting his home from intruders_. _Protecting me_ , _like a badly trained attack dog._ Matt felt ashamed that the neighbours had seen him in such a state. It was the first time he had ever spoken to Francis and Antonio, who seemed like decent people. Not stupid people. _I lied to them and they knew it._ The Frenchman had looked disapproving; the green-eyed Spaniard had looked sad. Gil had looked dangerous: fists and jaw clenched, shoulders arched, wine-red eyes glaring in threat. _Such beautiful red eyes_. Matt half-smiled, then stopped. He used to think the same thing about Allan's eyes, but now they frightened him beyond anything else. Like Alfred's, Allan's face was expressive, and in those red eyes lived malicious intent.

Thinking of Alfred and of what Allan used to be tugged at Matt's heartstrings. It made him feel homesick.

"I want to go home," he confessed to the darkness. _But what's home_? Matt couldn't remember.

* * *

Since that night the neighbours had started frequently knocking at the door. Not to accuse Allan of mistreating Matt, but hoping, it seemed, to catch him in a compromising position. It scared Matt every time they knocked, afraid that Allan would finally lose his temper and attack them. But the three fourth-year students seemed unperturbed by his brashness and insults. They seemed so self-confident and unafraid, as if each of them had individually seen and heard worse than a punk-ass kid's threats. Matt was curious about each of them (they seemed so foreign and exotic, and all three of them were older than he and Allan), but he was too shy to ask. Allan had already decided to hate them all and, by extension, he expected Matt to do likewise.

Unfortunately, it was usually Allan who answered the door when anyone knocked. He never invited them in and often started an argument. Two of the neighbours were eloquent in reply but one was easily provoked. The hot-blooded German served Allan's slander right back, infuriating the American. Consequentially, he hated Gil the most.

But occasionally, when Matt reached the door first, or if Allan was out, his neighbours would smile kindly at him. Like big-brothers they teased him and chatted, subtly asking after his health. They invited him out to have lunch, or to play videogames, or watch films, which he always politely declined. He was afraid of getting caught making new friends, which Allan disapproved of. In truth, though, Matt started to rely on their sporadic interruptions, especially when Allan _was_ home:

"Hola, Mathew, did you happen to get our post today by mistake?"

"Bonjour, Mathieu, can I borrow a few eggs and a cup of brown sugar?"

"Hallo, Matt, I'm short on change, got any spare quarters for the washing-machine?"

Allan thought they were incredibly annoying, but Matt liked the unexpected visits. He spent his days at home alone, doing housework and wasting time; he read a lot. But the constant interruptions made him feel less lonely, like he and Allan weren't the only two people in the world. Interacting, talking and joking, with Gil, Francis, and Antonio made him feel less isolated from the outside world. And if nothing else he was grateful for that.

* * *

One day Gil caught Matt walking home from the bus-stop, toting several heavy, plastic bags, which split open on the sidewalk. "Shit!" he cursed, chasing after the contents: groceries. Gil rescued a jar of peanut butter from the gutter and Matt apologized for the trouble.

"The next time you're grocery shopping or anything," Gil told him, "let me know and I'll drive you."

His chance came the following week when Matt knocked on the door. "Is that offer for a drive still good?" he hoped. "I promised Allan vegetarian lasagna for supper. I told him I had the ingredients, but I don't. I thought I could walk to the grocery store before he got home, but now it's pissing-down rain," he explained.

"Ja, sure." Gil set his notes aside and grabbed his cell-phone. He texted Francis: TOOK YOUR CAR. BE BACK LATER. Eagerly he led Matt to the garage and habitually opened the car's door like a gentleman. He immediately felt silly having done it, but Matt's—confused but happy—smile made it worth it. He climbed into the driver's seat and let Matt control the radio as he drove. The nearest grocery store was close, a ten minute drive, but Gil enjoyed it. Once he (finally) got Matt talking freely he realized that, contrary to his prior belief, the boy was actually a really lively person. His whole face lit up when he talked about something he loved, like hockey. He told Gil stories about his high-school hockey team and looked so nostalgic that Gil almost asked why he had given it up. _Allan_ , _of course_. _He_ _probably didn't want Matt getting hurt_ , he thought ironically. When they reached the store Gil accompanied Matt inside. Matt practically jogged down the aisles, apologizing for wasting Gil's time. Gil, however, moseyed along behind Matt, hands hanging casually from his jeans' pockets while insisting that there was nowhere else he would rather be. He bought a six-pack of beer and then helped Matt carry everything back to the car.

At the house, unloading the bags, Matt cursed:

"Shit, the cashier didn't give me a receipt."

"So?" Gil shrugged, misunderstanding the tragedy. "You're not missing anything, right?"

"No, it's just that Allan likes to look over the receipts for everything I buy. He'll be mad that I don't have it."

Gil made a face in disbelief. "You're kidding, right? Isn't that kind of... controlling? Doesn't he trust you?"

"Well, yes," Matt dodged, busying himself putting the groceries away. "But it's his money that I'm spending so it's not weird if he wants to keep tally of what I've bought. We're kind of on a budget until Allan gets a pay-raise. It wouldn't be so bad if I was working, but— Anyway," he quickly changed the topic, "thanks for helping me today, Gil. I really appreciate it. Would you like something to drink?"

* * *

After a few weeks it became routine. When Allan was gone, working at the veterinary clinic, Matt would often invite his neighbours in. He loved the company and they were such interesting people. Gil's schedule was the most flexible during the day because most of his classes were in the early-morning or in the evening. He avoided visiting at high-noon because Allan came home for lunch every day (the clinic was a short drive from the house), but otherwise spent a great deal of time in Matt's apartment. Matt loved Gil's company the best because he reminded him of Alfred, the best-friend he had left behind. He wasn't the kind of person who sugar-coated disagreeable topics; when he talked he was honest and straightforward. Usually it made Matt laugh, or gasp, or blush, but sometimes it made him nervous. Allan and Gil disliked each other and neither of them pretended otherwise. The few times that Allan had caught Gil leaving, it had been a simmering exchange, one that Matt would be interrogated for later:

"What the fuck did he want? It's the middle of the fucking day, doesn't he have anything better to do besides snooping into our business? Did you invite him in? You're too fucking soft, Mattie. Next time just tell him you're busy. I don't trust that fucking albino."

"Busy?" Gil said the next day. He cocked a silver-white eyebrow in disbelief. Matt shrugged and then stepped aside, letting Gil into the apartment. "Well don't let me interrupt your daily routine," he waved in accommodation, stretching out on the couch. "If you've got housework to do, _doll_ , then please— schnell, schnell!" he joked, pretending to snap his fingers, mocking Allan. He kept Matt company for the afternoon, helping him do housework. He collected and folded clothes and chopped vegetables ("vegetarian, huh?" he eyed them skeptically), gossiping about school and the neighbourhood while Matt prepared supper. Gil liked to tell stories about his childhood in Germany and Matt loved to listen. They watched a lot of bad daytime television together and then Gil had to leave. "I've got my midterm today," he groaned. Matt had been helping him study for it all week. "Kiss for good-luck, birdie? If I pass, I'll serenade you tomorrow," he teased, blowing past the spontaneous and embarrassing request. Somewhere between groceries and laundry, Gil had decided that Matt looked like a white-faced, fragile-boned bird: "a little snowbird," he teased, flirtatiously poking at Matt's wintery looks. He was walking out, duffle-bag slung over his shoulder—hoping he hadn't taken the joke too far—when Matt stopped him.

"Good-luck, Gil," he said, and kissed his cheek.

Gil left just as Francis was returning home from class. He paused in the stairwell, glancing between the two, and then smiled up at Matt. "Bonjour, Mathieu. You look cheerful today."

Matt blushed. "It was a good day," he said ambiguously.

Francis' sapphire-blue eyes twinkled. "I'm très glad to hear it, chéri."

The Frenchman invited Matt to have homemade pizza with he and Antonio, but Matt politely declined. He wanted to join them, of course, but Allan would be home soon and would have a fit if he found Matt in the basement-apartment with two _foreign strangers_. When the American called at five-thirty, however, and told Matt that he had to stay late at the clinic, Matt abandoned the meal he was eating and descended the stairs. He was welcomed into a low-ceilinged space that was sparsely furnished—undeniably a student apartment—which was chaotic but not unclean. Francis and Antonio were physically put-together but they were both sloppy housekeepers (Gil was the painfully neat one). They caroused and fed Matt pizza, insisting that he have seconds, then thirds; insisting that he have a glass of wine, or a beer, despite his protests: "I can't, I'm underage." At seven o'clock Gil arrived home and was pleasantly surprised to find the Canadian boy in his apartment. Matt said: "How was your midterm?"

"Piece of cake," Gil replied confidently. "Thanks for helping me study, birdie. I promised you a song, didn't I?" Grinning playfully, he took his guitar and hopped onto the countertop, strumming like a minstrel. Matt laughed, while Francis and Antonio both groaned:

"Arrêtez!"

"Deténgase!"

For all of Gil's musical talents—he was a clever composer and an amazing musician—he was a terrible singer. Eventually Antonio took Gil's guitar and began to play a fun, fast-paced Spanish song, challenging Gil's singing voice (the Spaniard was a rather good singer). Francis mixed a pitcher of drinks and gave one to Matt: "Virgin," he winked, sitting down beside him. It was loud and energetic. They decided to play a generic music-based videogame, which Gil claimed he was "awesome!" at (and, indeed, he was). Matt was unschooled but not bad. He beat Francis, who huffed and decided to have another drink. Matt played a set of drums, wielding the drumsticks rather aggressively in a fierce desire to win. Gil laughed at his attempt, and said: "C'mon, birdie. I'm going to teach you some basics." He turned off the television and sat Matt down at his drum kit in the corner. He smiled as he talked, teaching Matt. Matt liked how animated he looked. Gil was a good teacher. Antonio played a slow-er tune in practice and Gil sat down on the bench behind Matt, legs spread. Hesitantly, with Matt's unvoiced permission, he took the Canadian's hands like a puppeteer and helped him play the notes, following Antonio's lead. Matt laughed. He found it hard to concentrate on the notes with Gil sitting so close, chest-to-back. The German's body was solid, strong, and cool to the touch; he could feel Gil's breath on the back of his neck. He lost track of time, enjoying himself, and soon it was nine o'clock.

"Shit! I've got to go," he said. "Gil, let go. I've got to—"

"Bird-ie!" Gil whined. He snaked his arms around Matt's waist, hugging him. "Don't leave yet, it's only nine."

"No," said Matt, betraying worry. He wriggled free of Gil's embrace. "I can't. Allan will be home soon."

 _Soon_ wasn't quite accurate. When Matt stepped into his apartment Allan was already there, waiting for him.

* * *

That night Gil was returning home from the corner-store (having bought cigarettes, lighting one) when, suddenly, he heard a loud, high-pitched scream. In reflex he dropped the cigarette and sprinted into the house, banging his fist on the first-floor apartment's door: "Matt? Mattie?! Allan, open the fucking door!" But this time nobody answered. This time Gil took a paperclip from his pocket and jammed it into the lock, twisting it until he heard the cheap lock click in release. Allan would undoubtedly accuse him of breaking-and-entering, having picked the lock (a talent that Gil kept quiet), but at that moment Gil didn't care. His friend was in danger and that's all that mattered. He pushed the door open—and froze.

Allan had Matt bent over the back of the couch—the couch Gil liked to lounge on—and was fucking him hard. There was blood. Matt's fists were clenched and his eyes were squeezed shut and crying. His naked body convulsed, hips bucking as Allan's slick cock plowed into him, hurting him.

It was more than Gil had bargained for. He had been expecting a fight, but this—? He stood paralyzed.

Allan growled in climax and his whole body jolted. A strangled sound escaped Matt and Allan released him. He slid to the floor. Allan slipped his flaccid cock back into his blue-jeans and was reaching for his belt when he finally noticed Gil. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute, but Gil felt like he had been watching forever. He felt sick. Allan's face revealed shock, and then anger:

"You fucker!" he yelled, brandishing his belt like a weapon. "What the fuck are you doing in here?! How the fucking-hell did you get in?! Enjoy the fucking show, you goddamned pervert?! Get out!"

Recovering, Gil found his voice: " _Me_? What the fick do you think you're doing?! That's—"

"I think I'm fucking my boyfriend _in private_!" Allan emphasized. "Now get the fuck out!"

Gil ignored him. He stepped forward: "Matt—" It was the wrong thing to do. He flinched when Allan's belt slapped hard across his skin. It stung. "You ficking bastard!"

"Gil, please stop," said Matt. He was half-sitting and half-lying on the floor, having pulled an afghan over his naked body. He was staring at the floor, refusing to look up. He looked broken. Sternly, yet choked, he said: "Just go."

"But Mattie—"

"GET OUT!" Allan yelled, shoving him.

The door slammed shut and Gil was left alone in the dark stairwell.

* * *

I was going to pretend to be out," Matt said, answering the door the next day, "but I didn't want you freaking-out and calling the police or something."

"You're mad at _me_?" Gil gaped, reading Matt's accusatory tone.

"Yes, I'm mad. You had no right to break in here last night, Gil. What you saw was—" He paused, took a deep breath. "What Allan and I do in private is between us, it doesn't concern you."

"Are you ficking serious?" Gil stepped into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. "I'm supposed to just stand there and watch you get raped?!"

"No! You're not supposed to be here at all! That was private, not a spectacle!"

"Matt, I heard you scream," Gil countered. "What was I supposed to do? When I saw you, you were crying!"

"Lots of people cry during sex," Matt dismissed, turning away. Gil grabbed his forearm, stopping him:

"Yeah," he agreed, "maybe the first few times, but you two have been together for, like, four years. Look, I've been on the top and I've been on the bottom and I've done everything in between," he admitted, "and I promise you, it's not supposed to hurt that much. He's doing it on purpose. But you know that, don't you?"

Matt's violet eyes stared at the floor, refusing to meet Gil's gaze. Quietly, he said: "Five years, we've been together for five years. But it doesn't matter—"

"Ja it does, Matt! Fick," Gil spat, feeling angry, "maybe next time I _will_ call the cops."

That got Matt's attention. His pale-blonde head whipped up in panic, eyes wide: "No, please don't do that. Don't ever call the police."

Gil's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Releasing Matt, he crossed his arms. "Why not?"

Matt swallowed. "Because if you do I'll be forced to lie. And then Allan will move us away and I'll never see you again. Please don't make an enemy of him, Gil. I've already lost my two best-friends"—Alfred and Arthur—"I don't want to lose you too."

Gil shook his head, befuddled. "Why the hell would you lie, Matt? Why protect that guy?"

Matt sunk down onto the couch, looking suddenly tired. Gil gambled and sat down on the arm (absently he wondered which pieces of furniture, if any, was clean of Allan's semen. _Now I know why the whole place smells like industrial disinfectant so often_ ). "Allan and I have been together for a long time. I love him—"

"Nein, don't give me that bullshit," Gil said sternly. "Tell me the real reason. Are you afraid to leave him?"

"Yes, partially," Matt admitted, shame-faced. "But mostly it's because... I owe him."

The confession was so quiet that Gil barely heard. But he kept silent and let Matt continue:

"You might find it hard to believe, but Allan wasn't always the monster he is now. He was a decent person. Maybe not a model citizen but good-hearted, you know? He used to like playing hero, protecting Alfred and I from, well... everything, even though he's the younger twin. As a child I idolized his strength, I thought the world of him. He was the coolest person I knew and he was always so nice to me. Not soft, he's never been soft, but he was kind before, really devoted. I was so happy the day he told me he loved me. We were only fourteen but it felt right. I had adored him for so long. Then one night, just before high-school graduation, we were in a car accident. It was my fault, I was driving. Allan threw himself on top of me to protect me and saved my life. I owe him for that."

"So, what? Because of an accident you think you belong to him?" Gil scoffed. He understood the premise, the mind-set, but: "Mattie, that's not right. It was an _accident_ , you can't punish yourself for—"

"No! Don't you get it? He's fucked-up because of me! I can't abandon him. I promised him I wouldn't. I—" His voice broke, high-pitched. In embarrassment he covered his mouth, sucking back a sob, but his shoulders shook. Gil reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He said:

"Mattie, circumstances change. The promise you made was to a different Allan, the guy who actually loved you. But he's gone now."

Matt wiped his eyes. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Not really." Noting Gil's expression, he smiled ruefully. "If you think I've never considered leaving, you're wrong. Alfred wanted me to. He said he'd help me if I decided to leave. Arthur used to have a flat to let, which he would've given to me if I needed it. Sometimes I wish I had done it, but..." He shook his head. "It's too late. I have nothing: no licence, no cell-phone, no money, no job, no qualifications for anything, and absolutely nowhere to go. Allan takes care of me. I'm completely dependent on him, he's made sure of it. Without him I'd be—"

"Safe? Healthy? Happy? Take your pick," said Gil flatly. "You have friends who would help you, Matt. Alfred and Arthur and all of us," he implied himself and his roommates. "Why stay with him and let yourself be bullied?"

Matt sighed in self-degradation. "Because I'm a good little bitch who does what he's told. I always have."

Gil left soon afterward in defeat. Allan would be back soon, and, though he offered to stay, Matt practically forced him out the door. He slunk downstairs, feeling miserable. Antonio was tossing spaghetti in a strainer; Francis was in class. The Spaniard smiled in greeting: "Hola, Gilbert—" then stopped when he saw Gil's face. "It's about last night, isn't it?" he asked delicately. "Oh, mi amigo, I'm sorry," he said, cleaning his hands on a tea-towel. Habitually he opened the refrigerator and handed Gil a beer in comradeship. "I guess he wasn't happy to see you then, huh?"

"He's ein dummkopf," Gil grumbled, sliding onto a barstool. He twisted the cap off of the beer and drank.

"He's afraid," said Antonio, leaning over the countertop. "It's not you, he just doesn't know what to do."

"I ficking told him what to do!" Gil snapped, slamming his fist down.

Antonio lifted a coffee-brown eyebrow ironically. "Just like Allan does?" He sighed. "You can't save someone who doesn't want saving, Gil. Francis is right, you'll only make things worse for him. What if Mathew gets scared and pushes you away? What if he isolates himself from everyone? Would that be any better? No. He's already living in an unfamiliar city with a man who abuses him. What he needs right now is for you to be his friend. If ever there comes a time when he needs you to be, err... more," he said ambiguously, "I have no doubt that you'll know it."

Gil looked up at the dark-skinned Spaniard, not expecting to find such wisdom in Antonio's emerald-green eyes. He was such a kind and cheerful person, Gil often forgot that he and Francis had grown-up as orphans, fostered in the same Italian household. Neither of them were strangers to hurt and tragedy. In fact, Antonio harboured a deep, secret affection for the family's eldest son, whom he called almost every night ("gracias a Dios for web-cameras!" he often said). Gil knew that, despite his smiles, Antonio suffered. It was hard keeping a long-distance relationship alive. Gil had only met Lovino Vargas once in person, but he had spoken to him several times via Skype when Antonio was busy. He was a privileged, stylish boy; really attractive, but full of attitude. Every conversation Gil had ever had with him had ended in an insult or argument. But Antonio genuinely loved him.

In contrast, Francis had never had a steady, long-term lover, despite his blatant popularity. Since the three of them had moved into the basement-apartment two years ago, he had never brought anyone back to the house. "I don't kiss and tell," he told his roommates when asked, which lent a certain mystery to his love-life that Gil and Antonio liked to tease. But he was sad. He loved love but hadn't found it yet. It was subtle—he was a positive person—but Gil could see the longing, sometimes emptiness, that lived in Francis' sapphire-blue eyes.

And then there was Gil, himself, who had always had enough trouble finding weekend dates without having a hideously inappropriate crush on his victimized, violet-eyed neighbour (which he was really bad at hiding). Both of his roommates knew about it and Gil had stopped denying it.

(Regardless of the circumstance, the three friends had learned—after a few awkward encounters— _never_ to enter anyone else's bedroom uninvited.)

Gil finished his beer, watching Antonio cook. "Thanks for the guilt-trip," he said sarcastically, standing up. Antonio cocked his head in mock-thanks. Just then the Spaniard's cell-phone buzzed, indicating a text:

"Awe, Lovi," he said to himself, smiling as he typed in reply. "What would I do without twenty-first century technology? It keeps me constantly connected to mi amor."

Gil rolled his eyes. He was ready to feign gagging as Antonio gushed, but paused. A thought struck him then and he changed direction, heading to his bedroom. It took him five seconds to find what he was looking for (his room was militant in tidiness): an old cell-phone that he hadn't traded in yet. The screen was cracked but it functioned just fine. He stuffed it into his pocket, and then called: "I'll be right back."

It took Matt a long time to answer the door when Gil knocked. He started to worry— _Allan should be home by now_ —and fought the urge to bang louder. If Allan answered then he would have to make-up an excuse as to why he was there. He wouldn't let Gil see Matt for no reason. But, fortunately, the door revealed Matt when it swung open:

"Yes—? Oh. Hello, Gil."

"Uh, ja—" Gil stuttered. Mystery solved: Matt had been in the shower when Gil knocked. He must've run out. He was dripping wet and clutching a towel to his waist, beads of hot, heady-scented water sliding over his naked body, and his skin was flushed. Absently he reached up and smoothed back a curl, eyeing Gil expectantly. Gil swallowed. As sexy as Matt looked, he couldn't stand the thought of him being in the shower with Allan. "I didn't, uh... mean to interrupt..." he said awkwardly.

"No, it's fine. I don't usually answer the door like this," Matt admitted, "but I thought you might be Allan. He forgets his key almost religiously and locks himself out," he explained.

"Oh," Gil brightened. Allan wasn't home. "That's good."

Matt frowned, then glanced left-to-right distrustfully. "Gil, why are you here?"

"I came to apologize to you," he said honestly. "I'm sorry I yelled before, I just don't like seeing my friends get hurt." Matt's big violet eyes softened. Gil felt his heartbeat skip. "I wanted to give you this," he thrust the old cell-phone into Matt's free hand. "The next three months are already paid. I was going to trade it in, get store credit or something," he shrugged, "but I thought you might want it."

Matt looked from the cell-phone to Gil. "I can't accept this, I can't afford to buy it from you—"

"It's already paid for, I haven't cancelled the contract yet," Gil explained. "It's a gift. I've already programmed it with my cell number so... call me whenever you want. It'll be our secret, ja?"

Finally, after a moment's pause, Matt's lips curled into a grateful smile. "Thank-you, Gil," he said, pulling the German into a one-armed hug. Gil stiffened on impact in surprise and then gently—and delicately, suddenly feeling hot and nervous—placed his hands on Matt's wet back. His skin was soft and smooth and his slippery curls smelled like scented soap. It made Gil's pulse quicken. He knew that he should pull back but he lingered, holding Matt and fighting the urge to lick the water from his pale shoulder. Matt was thinner than he should be, just this side of bony; Gil could feel his ribs. Matt wouldn't admit it but Allan fancied his slender figure and insisted that Matt stick to a strict, supposedly _healthy_ , diet to avoid gaining weight. That is, when the American wasn't blatantly insulting his looks, which made the Canadian feel guilty and unattractive. (Matt often looked paler than he should because he was underfed) Thinking about everything that Allan denied Matt made Gil angry. It infuriated him, but right now he was the farthest thing from it. Right now he was blissful, hugging the half-naked object of his affection. _Allan will bury me if he catches us like this_ , he thought, but it only made him grin.

"I should go," he said after a minute.

"Mm, yeah," Matt sighed. Was it his imagination or did Matt not want to let him go? Regretfully he pulled back. "I'm sorry too, Gil, about before. And about last night. I overreacted," Matt said softly. "It's always nice to know that someone cares about you."

Gil nodded, smiling in return. "Seriously, birdie, call me anytime— for anything. I'll always answer."


	4. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **THREE**

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **NOVEMBER 2014**

Matt clenched his teeth, clawing at Allan's broad shoulder one-handed as the redhead fucked him. The headboard banged loudly against the wall, following the pace of Allan's fast rhythm. He was breathing hard, skin slicked with sweat. His fingernails scratched the inside of Matt's thighs, pulling him closer, sinking deeper. He was drunk—again. Since turning twenty-one he had frequently started to spend his meager paycheck on booze. There was a local bar that now knew Allan Jones by name as well as reputation. He would go there after work and then, fueled by cheap liquor, return home to torment Matt. He liked to toy with Matt, liked to chase him and hit him and fuck him. Sometimes he wanted to goad Matt into compliance, demanding obedience, and sometimes he wanted him to fight back, laughing and growling and yelling as he forced Matt into submission.

Tonight was one such night. Matt choked back sobs and tears rolled down his cheeks as Allan grunted in climax, releasing his hot seed, and then passed-out. Matt didn't know how long he stayed there, unable to move: one wrist handcuffed to the headboard and Allan's bulky weight lying on top of him. He tried to move but it was a difficult position. He couldn't reach over Allan to free himself and he couldn't move with Allan's cock still jammed inside him. His whole body hurt, nursing several new bruises (none to his face). He couldn't even lower his legs because Allan had been holding them up and his arms were still snaked underneath. His head was resting on Matt's neck, his face turned inward. Matt could feel his hot breath, listening to him snore. He could still taste the whiskey on his tongue.

Shaking, he reached into his pillowcase and pulled out the cell-phone hidden there. A pale glow lit his face. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning. He typed one word: HELP

Minutes later Gil was standing in the bedroom beside him, still holding the paperclip he had used to pick the lock. Wordlessly he slipped it into his pocket and grabbed Allan's shoulders. Matt turned his face away, tear-streaked and flushed in guilt. He felt Gil lift Allan's naked body off of him, flinching when the redhead's cock pulled out. Allan flopped sideways onto the mattress, leaving Matt exposed. "This is new," Gil mumbled, forcing Matt's wrist free. The plastic, dollar-store handcuffs snapped open. Habitually Gil chucked a t-shirt and boxer-shorts at Matt and looked elsewhere as he dressed. Sometimes, if it was really bad, he needed Gil's assistance, but tonight he managed it alone. Clothed, he reached for Gil and wrapped an arm around his shoulders; Gil held his waist and helped him stand. Matt bit back a whimper. He leaned against Gil as the German guided him from the room, out of the apartment, and then half-carried him down the stairs into the basement. He helped Matt to the futon in the lounge and then sat down on the coffee-table across from him, facing him. And he said:

"Second time this week, birdie." His tone was stiff, unhappy.

Matt stared at his knees, red from rug-burn. Meekly, he said: "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be smarter. I told you: I don't like seeing my friends get hurt." In example he eyed the cut on Matt's lip, where Allan had bitten him, and gently wiped off the blood with his thumb.

Matt liked Gil's touch, so solid. It made him feel better—and worse. He felt himself trembling and, suddenly, his vision blurred. He blinked but the tears fell. After a short silence Gil sighed in defeat and moved to sit beside him on the futon. He pulled Matt into a hug and rubbed his back and Matt clung to him. Feeling ashamed, beaten, ugly, undeserving, and worthless, he held his friend and cried onto Gil's black t-shirt.

"I'll make hot chocolate," said Francis quietly. Matt hadn't even heard him enter.

Antonio said: "Sí. I'll get some antibiotic and run the shower."

Francis and Antonio were kind-hearted people who didn't ask questions, just acted, which Matt was grateful for. As if they knew exactly what they were doing; as if they had experienced it before. But despite their silence and understanding, Matt would've preferred them not to know. He didn't want to get anyone else involved and didn't want his neighbours to know in detail what Allan did to him. Gil's involvement was enough. But when Antonio helped him into a shower of steaming-hot water, he was thankful for the chance to clean himself. And when Francis wrapped a quilt around his shoulders and handed him a mug of hot chocolate, it reminded Matt of Arthur, and he nearly cried. Two hours and a half-drank mug of hot chocolate later, Matt failed to stifle a yawn. Francis and Antonio had slipped quietly back to bed, but Gil remained faithfully beside him, dozing. His left arm had fallen to Matt's waist, holding him, while his silver-white head was resting gently atop Matt's curls. Matt didn't want to move even an inch. He felt safe here, sitting close to Gil, but Gil needed to sleep properly in his own bed. He had class in the morning and Matt had to be back in his own apartment before Allan got up for work in— _fuck_ , _four hours_. He would be expecting Matt to wake him up and would blame Matt if he was late. Shifting slightly, setting the mug on the coffee-table (biting back a yelp), he said: "Gil?"

"Mm hmm?"

"Can I sleep here tonight?" He indicated the futon.

Gil groaned in reply, a sleep-heavy response. Instead of repeating it in English (or German) he stood, lifted Matt carefully into his arms, which surprised Matt, and walked blindly to his bedroom. There he deposited Matt on the perfectly-made bed and then retreated. At the door, he said: "Sleep here tonight. There's an extra blanket in the closet if you're cold." Then he left. Matt saw the hallway light extinguish and then heard the futon sigh beneath Gil's weight, and he knew that Gil wasn't coming back in. It made him feel just a little bit sad.

Matt thought that he would have trouble sleeping in a strange place, without Gil's comforting touch, but he was wrong— _very_ wrong. He fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted and spent, burying his face in a soft, fluffy pillow that smelled of Gil's fresh, masculine scent. Several feet underground in a dark corner-bedroom he felt unafraid, even safe. It wasn't as good as having Gil's strong body wrapped around him, but being surrounded by Gil's things, asleep in his bed, was the next-best thing. For the first time in ages he enjoyed a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Gil awoke the next morning with a stiff neck and cramped legs because his body's length exceeded the futon's. Francis kicked the foot, jolting him into consciousness. He murmured an incoherent curse in German, which the Frenchman ignored. He pointed to the clock, and said: "Class starts in half-an-hour. Here," he added, and handed Gil a buttered croissant for breakfast, still warm.

"Dummkopf, flaky French pastry," he complained sleepily, chewing it. Then he remembered: "Matt?"

"He left over an hour ago. I guess he was late getting in because it's Allan's voice that woke me this morning. He didn't sound happy. I really wish their bedroom wasn't directly above mine," he sighed hopelessly. "I can literally hear _everything_ they do— Oh," he stopped, casting Gil an apologetic glance.

Gil narrowed his eyes in accusation, then said: "You're a deep sleeper, forget about it."

Tying a scarf around his neck and buttoning his coat, Francis said: "It's chilly outside. The forecast is calling for snow so wear a coat today, Gil." Then he left, toting a shoulder-bag bulging with sketchbooks.

As if on-cue, Antonio emerged from his bedroom and shivered. Like a sleepwalker he stopped in front of the coffee-machine and brewed a mug of steaming black coffee. He sipped it, sighed in deep contentment, and then said: "Is Mathew going to be okay?"

Gil exhaled in derision, collecting a handful of guitar picks. He stuffed them into his pocket, yanked a hoodie on overhead, and then his black-leather jacket. "No," he grumbled, stalking past Antonio. He grabbed his duffle-bag and slung it over his shoulder, then tugged on his boots. "Not if he doesn't find some ficking common-sense."

He slammed the door on his way out, leaving a very confused Antonio behind.

He was halfway down the road when, feeling guilty, worry gnawing at him, he pulled out his cell-phone and texted: ARE YOU OKAY?

Matt's response was almost instantaneous (which meant Allan was already gone): YES

Satisfied, Gil slipped the cell-phone back into his pocket, trading it for his music-player. He tugged the big headphones up from around his neck and hit PLAY, letting the loud, raw sound fuel him. Now that he knew Matt was safe, at least until five o'clock, he could resume being angry at him. _Fucking boy_ , _how many times am I going to pull that drunk psychopath off of him before he realizes that he needs to leave_? _It's not fucking safe for him there_ _and it's only getting worse_. _He deserves better_. _Why can't he understand that_?! _He's a fucking fool_ , _and I'm no better_ , he thought, disgusted with himself. He clenched the strap of his duffle-bag. _I'm just an enabler_ , _sitting back and letting it happen. I'm the worst fucking friend in the world_ , _but I don't know what to do._

The boy he was head-over-heels in love with lived in constant danger, and: "I don't know what to do."

It was the worst feeling in the world.

* * *

 **NOVEMBER 26th**

You invited my brother for Thanksgiving, _why_?" Allan asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, sulking.

Matt said: "He called yesterday, just wanting to know how everything was, and we started talking about the holidays and how you and I can't be there for Christmas, and he said that he and Arthur were touring schools here in Boston, so I invited them to spend the night."

Allan moaned in despair: "Ah! The tea-fucker's coming here too? Goddamn it, why are you doing this to me, baby-doll?" He reached out like a child, a not-so-subtle order for physical contact. Matt obliged and stepped into the circle of his arms and Allan leaned his forehead against Matt's stomach, holding his hips. "Matt-ie!" he whined. "You know I can't stand that fucking tea-fucker. I thought it was just going to be us alone for the holidays this year." He said it as if solitude was the preferable choice. Gently Matt teased Allan's feathery red hair. Despite his whining, the American was in a good mood today (stone-cold sober) and Matt didn't want to spoil it. It was a small glimpse of what they had once been and he could almost trust Allan when he was happy like this. That was, until he looked longingly up at Matt, and said: "I think we should have a baby."

"A _what_ —?!"

The American laughed and pulled Matt onto his lap. "C'mon, doll. You'd look so fucking adorable with a little baby," He kissed Matt's neck.

"Al, even if that were physically possible, which—are you sure you're not drunk?—it's not, we can't afford to have a baby. And there's no way in hell any agency would let us adopt," he said, feeling the initial panic ebb as he considered it logically. It had scared him. "I'm sorry, love."

Allan, however, wasn't perturbed. In fact, he grinned. "No, no. I'm not talking about _you_ having a baby, even though that would be hysterical," he teased, poking Matt's flat stomach. "I'm talking about fostering orphans. I read online that those people who take in foster-brats get, like, an allowance from the government to take care of them. Get it? Free cash just for housing a few kids for a few months! It's perfect, yeah? Because you're here all day anyway, it'll give you something to do. You can't deny that you'd make a great parent to some fucked-up little brat, you're so kind and considerate, doll. You take such good care of me," he smiled, nuzzling Matt's neck playfully. "Why not a baby?"

Matt placed his hands on Allan's shoulders, staring at him in bafflement. "Oh my God, you're serious."

"Uh, fuck yeah," he said sarcastically. "If we take in, like, three or four kids then the money we'll get could pay for my tuition to veterinary school. We'd only have to do it for a year or two."

"Al," said Matt seriously, "that money is supposed to help supplement the children's living expenses. It's an allowance, not a pay-check. Besides, this is only a two-bedroom apartment. It's too small for four kids! And we're not married, we're not even from this city, and I'm not an American citizen. They would never even consider us as foster-parents," he said as kindly as possible. Internally, his stomach churned in dread: _Bring a child into this_ _fucked-up household_? _I'd sooner die_! But it couldn't happen. The government would never let it happen—right? In appeasement, he repeated: "I'm sorry, love. But it just can't happen." Allan, however, wasn't listening:

"Just think about it, okay? I think you'd look cute with a baby on your hip," he said, as if Matt hadn't spoken.

* * *

 **NOVEMBER 27th**

There was an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway: a nice, shiny black one with a leather interior (Gil peeked inside; he really liked automotives). His first thought was that the landlord had returned early from his overseas travels, but quickly dismissed it. It was parked in the space reserved for the first-floor apartment. _There's no way Allan's salary could afford something that expensive_ , he knew, _they must have guests_. That thought alone put Gil on-edge. In the three months that Allan and Matt had lived at the house they had _never_ had guests. Allan liked to keep their life private. Detective-like, Gil noted the New York license plate and felt the hood, which was still warm. _So they've just arrived_. _I wonder who_ —

The front door swung open and a jaunty, wheat-blonde boy leapt quickly down the steps. He looked familiar, but Gil was sure they had never met before. Despite that fact, the boy smiled cockily and said: "Hello. Nice ride, isn't it?" He swung the keys around his index finger and casually popped open the trunk. "Hey! Which bag has my stuff in it, Artie?!" he called loudly, eyeing the mess.

"Your stuff is _everywhere_ ," said a piqued, English accent. It proceeded a pale, slight-figured man, who folded his arms in annoyance. "Honestly, Al, you've destroyed the interior of my car, and I— Hello. Can we help you?"

Gil blinked. "Nein. I live here," he pointed in explanation.

"Oh!" Abandoning the bags, the American faced Gil with renewed interest. He was a very handsome boy, big and broad-shouldered and tanned. His laughing blue eyes were bright as he said: "I know you! You're Mattie's friend Gilbert, right? I'm Alfred Jones," he introduced himself, extending his hand.

 _Ah_! _That's why you look so familiar_ , Gil thought, shaking Alfred's hand. It was strong, like his twin's. "Ja, I'm Gil," he replied. "So Mattie's, err... told you about me?"

Alfred nodded. "Oh yeah, he told me—"

"Al, do you need any help with— Oh. Hi, Gil." Matt stopped on the porch beside Arthur. He looked flushed and lively, happy for once. "You've met my friends?" he asked hopefully. "Alfred and Arthur are staying the night."

"Nice to meet you," said Arthur politely, taking Gil's hand when offered.

"Ja, I've heard a lot about you two," Gil said, glancing between them: Matt's best-friends. "You used to be in a band, right Arthur?"

"Oh God," Arthur blushed, hiding his face in embarrassment. Alfred snickered. The Englishman shot a dirty look at he and Matt, who shrugged in mock-innocence. "Just what has he told you about it?"

"Nein, it's cool," Gil assured him. "I'm a musician too, I study music. What instruments do you play?"

* * *

Arthur's suspicious face perked-up as Gil led him into the house, talking music. _Good luck_ , Matt wished him, knowing Arthur's pretentious taste. He joined Alfred in unloading the car and dragged a heavy satchel up the steps. "It's really good to see you, Al. I'm glad you're here," he smiled. It had been so long since he had seen his two friends that he felt overwhelmed by giddiness. He hadn't been expecting his house-guests to arrive until after Allan got home from work. It was a six hour drive from Rochester to Boston after all. But the instant that he had opened the door he had been engulfed in a hug that lifted him off his feet and he hadn't wanted to let go. It felt familiar, being crushed by Alfred's loving embrace; it was a little taste of home. Since the accident, Alfred had always been Matt's confidant and protector (the job Gil had adopted), and he missed him greatly.

"Yeah. I missed you too, Mattie. How are you, you okay?" Alfred asked, revealing worry.

"I'm fine," Matt nodded. He pushed open the front door.

"So that's Gil, huh? He looks just how you described him, kind of creepy." Matt kicked his shin. "Not ugly or anything! I mean, he's a good-looking guy, he just kind of reminds me of a vampire," Alfred said bluntly. Teasingly, he faked a (bad) Romanian accent and leaned closer to Matt: " _Have you let him suck your blood_? Or anything else?" he added cheekily.

"Al, piss-off!" Matt laughed. They reached the landing and entered the first-floor apartment, where Gil and Arthur were debating fervently. It was a pleasant sight: a houseful of friends.

"So I guess I'll see you later, birdie," Gil said in goodbye. "It was cool talking to you, even if your music taste is pathetically, exclusively British. Seriously, Arthur, broaden your scope," he advised good-humouredly.

"Gil, do you want to stay for supper?" Matt invited him. "Francis and Antonio are welcome too."

Gil cocked his head, wearing a lopsided grin. "Ja, because Allan would just _love_ that, wouldn't he? All of his nemeses together in his house for the holiday. Nein, Matt. But thanks for the offer." In reflex, he ruffled Matt's curls.

"Told you," Alfred said to Arthur when Gil had left. He draped his arms around the Englishman from behind, hugging him. They were—weirdly enough—Matt's favourite couple, so comfortable with each other, yet not immune to the other's touch. Arthur's pale, freckled cheeks blushed and he smiled. Both, however, were looking at Matt. Alfred's blue eyes twinkled suggestively, glancing between Matt and Gil's retreat. Subtly, Arthur said:

"Gilbert seems nice. A little loud and undeniably German, but friendly. He seems to really like you—"

" _Love you_ ," Alfred corrected, grinning wider. "He's totally in love with you, Mattie."

Matt blushed, taken off-guard. "No, he's not," he denied (biting back a smile). The thought alone made his heart flutter. To distract himself, he said: "Besides, I love Allan."

He pretended not to notice the wearisome exchange between Alfred and Arthur, or the way Alfred squeezed his lover protectively. Instead, Matt flittered into the lounge like a nervous bird, talking fast: "Come on, I'll show you the guest-bedroom so you can unpack what you need. I'll put the kettle on too. I think we've got tea-cakes, but they're glutton-free because Allan is convinced that glutton is poison now." He rolled his eyes. "Or do you want beer? We've always got lots of beer. Then we can talk— about anything except my love-life."

Allan arrived home at five-thirty and kicked off his shoes, draping his coat over a kitchen chair. Deliberately he pulled Matt into his side, using him as a shield against unwanted small-talk. He suffered his twin-brother: "Hello, Alfred," but he didn't acknowledge Arthur's presence at all. Alfred tried his best to be cordial: "Hey, bro. Long time no see, how have you been? How's the job going?" But Allan's reply was curt: "Fine." Matt tried to keep the atmosphere light and positive, talking about neutral topics and reminiscing, but Allan clung to him like a drowning-victim. It was possessive, a blatant show of ownership, and made everyone feel uncomfortable. He drank several beers, avoiding conversation, and rudely rolled his eyes whenever Arthur spoke for any length of time ("his accent is _so_ annoying!"). It embarrassed Matt, who was overjoyed to see his best-friends, and hoped that Allan's unwelcoming demeanor didn't discourage them from visiting in the future. Since he had moved to Boston, Matt and Alfred routinely talked on the telephone and he couldn't stand it if that contact suddenly stopped.

At six o'clock Matt finished preparing supper. Alfred poked at the roasting-pot in intrigue: "So we're having an entirely meatless Thanksgiving?" He sighed. Allan had been a vegetarian since he was eleven-years-old and insisted that, as long as they were together, Matt live like one as well. "That's real commitment, Mattie. I couldn't live without burgers," said Alfred longingly. Then he flinched:

"You can't fucking smoke in my house!" Allan snapped.

"I wasn't going to, I was going outside!" Arthur replied. He stalked into the kitchen, frustrated. There was a cigarette in his hand. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but if I'm going to spend the next twelve hours with _that man_ "—he stabbed his finger behind him—"then I need another pack of fags. Where's the nearest corner-shop?"

Matt gave him directions and he and Alfred left. However, the kitchen window was open a crack (letting out steam) and he could hear them talking outside:

"I don't know what I ever did to him, but he _really_ hates me, Al. How do I know he won't poison my food?!"

"Because he's not a comic-book villain!" Alfred insisted. Then his tone softened: "I'm sorry, babe. I know my brother makes you uncomfortable, but we're not here for him. We're here for Matt, right?"

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "I know, of course."

Matt flinched when Allan grabbed his hips, pressing himself close. They stood back-to-front in silence. Allan liked to cuddle Matt, wrapping his body around his lover. Again, it reminded Matt of how it used to be between them. It was pleasant for a minute, until Allan said: "You owe me for this, baby-doll." He kissed Matt's earlobe.

Matt said: "But he's your brother."

"I don't care. He's fucking annoying, like one of those yappy little dogs that won't shut up. And that English prick talks back to me in my own goddamned house."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Matt said quickly. Turning, he placed his hands on either side of Allan's sun-kissed face in appeasement and kissed him. "I'm sorry, love. I should've asked you first, but please don't be angry. Please do this as a favour to me. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Allan considered Matt's plea, eyeing him. Then, squeezing the boy's hips, he said: "You'd better."

It wasn't long after Allan had left the kitchen that Matt heard car tires scream on the pavement, followed by an outraged curse. Matt was standing on his tip-toes, trying to see out the window, when the door swung violently open. Alfred walked in, dragging a red-faced Arthur behind him. When he saw Matt, Arthur pointed backwards in indication: "One of your neighbours is French and can't fucking drive!"

Matt blinked. "Uh, Arthur, you know that those two things aren't mutually exclusive, right?"

Before Arthur could retort, a loud knock sounded at the door. Matt glanced timidly at Allan, who only glared from his place on the couch. Matt opened the door: "Francis?"

"Bonjour, Mathieu. May I please speak to the English-dog you've got visiting? Ah, you! You nearly drove me off the road!" he accused Arthur, brushing past Matt. "What is wrong with you?! This isn't fucking Angleterre!"

" _What_?! You nearly crashed into me!" Arthur defended.

"You were driving on the wrong side of the road!"

"How would you even know?! You weren't paying attention!"

"SHUT UP!" Allan yelled suddenly, throwing an empty beer bottle in fury. It hit the wall between Arthur and Francis and shattered. "I've had enough of you fucking foreigners! I can't get away from you, you're everywhere I go! For fuck's sake!" he complained, shoving his hands through his hair. "Sorry, doll," he said to Matt, grabbing his coat. "Stay here with these fucking jack-offs if you want, but I'm leaving." That said, he shoved aggressively past Matt and stomped downstairs, slamming the front door behind him. Silence stretched in his wake. Arthur and Francis looked at each other, then guiltily at Matt. Matt pursed his lips, searching for something to say. Then Alfred whistled, and said:

"That worked out well. Oh, come on," he said honestly. "We were all thinking it, I just said it out-loud. Allan's finally gone, now we can have fun."

Not wanting to insult Matt, both Arthur and Francis glanced at him: sheepish yet hopeful. Matt sighed. "Al's right. It's better this way" (it wouldn't be when Allan returned home, completely pissed, but until then everyone could relax). "Francis, why don't you go get Gil and Antonio and join us for supper?"

Alfred eyed the roasting-pot, skeptical of the vegetarian meal. "That sounds great, but can we order-in?"

* * *

They ordered pizza, chicken-wings, and fat, juicy cheese hamburgers from a nearby restaurant that delivered. "That's a relief, I'd hate to have to send the frog-eater to get it," Arthur sneered. The English and Frenchman had obviously gotten off on the wrong foot, yelling at each other. Gil had heard Francis shouting about it earlier, but knowing that Allan was gone put the international rivalry completely out of his mind. He sat beside Matt on the couch, thigh-to-thigh (there were more people than there were seats) and laughed as Matt waved at Alfred to be careful:

"He'll kill me if he finds barbeque sauce on the couch!" he said.

"Yeah, I bet that's not the only _sauce_ on this couch," Alfred countered. Matt squeaked in embarrassment and covered his mouth, cheeks heating. The others laughed, cat-calling and whistling good-humouredly in appreciation. Matt yelled at Alfred:

"I can't believe you just said that!" But he was laughing too.

Gil didn't particularly like that they were making fun of Matt's relationship (they all knew it for what it was: violent, degrading, and sexually-abusive), but in that moment the Canadian looked genuinely happy. _Maybe this is what he needs_ , Gil considered, _to feel like a normal person_ , _in a normal relationship_ , _just for a little while._ He loved how Matt's big, violet eyes danced in laughter, and how he pretended to hide his face against Gil's shoulder when the others attacked him. For once, bashful Matt didn't seem to mind being the centre of attention. In fact, he even played along. He was quick-witted and sarcastic and told stories about Alfred and Arthur's early relationship that made his friends blush and sputter in defense. Everyone else laughed hysterically. Within the circle of friends, feeling safe, Matt was a much more animated person, not the frightened little snowbird Gil had met three months ago. It was hopeful. Gil liked listening to the three friends banter back-and-forth, even though Allan featured in most of their stories. They had been childhood friends after all. Despite his hatred of the redhead, Gil started to get a picture of what Allan had been like before the accident: the Allan Jones that Matt had fallen in love with. It made Gil feel unexpectedly jealous. Absently, he kept close to Matt. He rested his arm casually over the couch's back, inches from the boy's slender neck, easing Matt into his side, thighs pressed together. He tried to be subtle, but Francis and Antonio already knew how he felt about Matt, and Alfred and Arthur weren't blind (fortunately neither one seemed too bothered by it. Alfred even winked cheekily at Gil in encouragement). The only person who seemed oblivious was Matt.

At eleven o'clock Allan returned. The room fell instantly silent as he entered, dropping his coat on the floor. He swayed slightly, blinking in drunkenness, as if trying to focus on the added people sitting together in his lounge. Matt had been meticulous about destroying the evidence of their supper, but Alfred was still gnawing on a pepperoni, which Allan noted. "Are you eating meat in my house?" he asked. He looked at Matt in accusation, who hadn't eaten a single bite (despite his friends' urging, he had obeyed Allan's rule and only eaten vegetarian). Angrily Allan narrowed his ruby-red eyes at the party, specifically at Gil, and said: "You three, get out."

"Sí, it's getting late," Antonio said, attempting to break the tension. It failed.

Gil got up slowly, dismissing Matt's apology. He openly glared at Allan as he walked by, pausing in the doorway. Quietly, so that only Allan could hear, he said: "If you hurt him tonight I'll ficking kill you."

* * *

Allan closed the door, and said: "I'm tired. Are you coming to bed?"

Matt hesitated. He wasn't the least bit tired. Fortunately, Alfred twisted the cap off another beer and handed it to Matt. "Not yet," he said, forcing cheerfulness, "we're not done reminiscing yet. Want to, err... join us?"

"No. I'm going to bed."

Matt knew that Allan expected him to follow, but he didn't. He stayed up with Alfred and Arthur, talking and playing cards. It was quiet and low-key compared to the former ruckus. It was polite, less risqué; they actively avoided teasing and sexual innuendos. Allan's presence seemed to hang like a black raincloud over the whole apartment. Matt wished that his neighbours hadn't been kicked-out, especially Gil. He felt exposed without Gil beside him, like an Olde Germanic knight. He didn't want to go to bed, afraid of what Allan might do, but eventually his guests began to tire. Arthur stifled a yawn and Alfred's eyes looked heavy. They wouldn't leave him alone though, and at half-two in the morning Matt finally surrendered:

"I'm kind of getting tired," he lied, standing up.

Alfred perked up, leaning lazily against Arthur's side. "Yeah, me too. Do you"—yawn—"think Allan's asleep?"

"Probably, he had a lot to drink," Matt said, easing Alfred's conscience. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Alfred glanced uneasily at Allan and Matt's bedroom door as Arthur pulled him up."Do you"—yawn—"want to sleep in with Artie?" he offered. Arthur nodded in agreement, looking worriedly at Matt. "I'll sleep here on the couch," Alfred added, _to protect you both from him._

Matt wished that he could accept, but: "You know that'll only make it worse. It's alright, I'll be fine."

He bid his friends goodnight and then slipped quietly into his bedroom, undressing. He whispered: "Allan?" but there was no response. Cautiously he climbed into the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin. It was cozy, already warmed by Allan's body-heat. He sighed and closed his eyes, sinking into his pillow. Then Allan's voice said:

"Did you have fun playing host today? Did you like being the centre-of-attention?"

Matt's eyes flew open. He admitted: "Yes."

He flinched when Allan rolled over, pulling Matt against his chest. He buried his face in Matt's pale-blonde curls, hugging him. "What time does my brother leave tomorrow?" he mumbled sleepily. Matt could smell the liquor.

"They have to be at the school for nine o'clock so they have to leave early."

Allan sighed in contentment. "Good. Remember, baby-doll, you promised to make it up to me."

Matt swallowed. Despite his friends in the next room and his neighbours downstairs, he suddenly felt very alone: "I know."


	5. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **FOUR**

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **JANUARY 2015**

The seasons changed and it got colder. It snowed on Christmas day, covering the ground in a layer of pristine ice-crystals. The veterinary clinic was closed for two weeks so Gil was unable to visit Matt over the holiday. He saw him outside though, walking down the street with Allan, or playing in the backyard. Matt loved winter. He fired snowballs playfully at Allan and Allan chased him, tackling him, and he shrieked in innocent laughter. Gil wore his big headphones so he wouldn't have to listen to them. He hated feeling jealous, but every time he saw them together the urge to pull them apart grew stronger. _It's a fucking act_ , he knew. Just because they looked so happy in public didn't mean that the private beatings had stopped. In fact, they happened more frequently now (Francis had been right: the more the others tried to protect Matt, the more possessive Allan became, feeling threatened). Gil tried to drown out Matt's cries like his laughter, but he couldn't do it. Instead he sat downstairs and listened, feeling increasingly angry.

What made it worse was that Francis and Antonio had left for the holidays, both having returned to Italy to spend Christmas with their foster-family (Antonio had been _very_ excited to see his Lovino again). Originally Gil was supposed to go back to Germany with his younger brother, Ludwig, but, as it turned out, Ludwig had secretly started dating the Vargas family's youngest son, Feliciano, and had also been invited to Italy. So instead Gil spent Christmas Eve with a friend from school. And he spent Christmas day alone.

Finally Allan returned to work the day after New Year's and Gil climbed the stairs to Matt's apartment. He couldn't quell the emotion that inadvertently bubbled-up when he saw Matt after the two week's absence. He looked good, gorgeous despite the split-lip. It looked painful but Matt smiled nonetheless:

"Hi, Gil. Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Ja," Gil lied, hugging him. It felt good. Matt smelled sweet, like maple-sugar, but he had lost weight.

They spent the afternoon together catching-up. They walked to the corner-store and back, enjoying the cold. It was snowing, big, fluffy flakes falling from the sky. They stopped in the park on the way back, sitting on the swings. It was there that Gil's resolve finally broke and he reached up to brush snowflakes from Matt's curls, letting his thumb gently touch the boy's smooth, flushed cheek. "Is this Allan's handiwork?" he asked, ghosting over Matt's bottom lip.

Self-consciously Matt licked his split-lip. It took effort on Gil's part, but finally he got Matt to talk: "I thought that Allan was getting better but I was wrong. He's getting worse. Last night I finally told him flat-out that I wouldn't foster orphans and he... he didn't take it well." Glancing sideways conspicuously, he unzipped his parka and lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing his flat stomach, which had been brutally beaten. His snow-white skin was bruised black and covered in welts, as if a blunt weapon had been involved. Momentarily Gil saw red in anger. He inhaled deeply to keep calm, counting to five. Matt confessed: "Ever since Alfred and Arthur visited Allan's been trying to hide it. He wants to avoid trouble with, well... you guys. He wouldn't be... I mean, he'd be really mad if he knew I was telling you." Sheepishly he looked down at the ground, fidgeting. Gil hated to see Matt look so forlorn, so defeated again. Since his friends had left he had retreated back into Allan's threatening shadow and Gil _hated it_. He hated looking at Matt like a kicked-dog, so timid and helpless. Spontaneously he took Matt's chin and lifted his head, staring into those sad eyes. _Don't look down_ , _Mattie_ , _look up at me_. _I want to see your face._

Softly Matt said: "I'm scared of him, Gil. I'm scared to go home."

Gil hesitated. He couldn't think of anything to say—so he kissed Matt.

Matt gasped in shock and pulled back. Gil was worried he had hurt Matt, but the boy's face betrayed fear, not pain. He stood abruptly, touching his lips. "Gil, y-you can't— I-I can't—"

"I'm sorry, birdie," Gil hurried, standing as well. He stepped forward but Matt retreated. He wanted to touch Matt, hold him. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just— ich liebe dich, Matt—"

"Gil, please don't," Matt panicked, looking from left-to-right. "I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't. Allan—"

"The guy's a psychopath, Mattie! You're in danger with him, you're going to get yourself killed!" Gil snapped. He realized his mistake when Matt flinched, but he grabbed the boy's forearm and soldiered on: "I hate seeing you with him. I hate seeing you get hurt. I love you, Matt," he repeated earnestly. "I would _never_ hurt you, I promise."

"I know," Matt said weakly, sounding choked. His violet eyes beaded with tears, looking tender. He reached for Gil but stopped midway, hand curling back against his chest. "I know you love me, and I... I love..." A tear fell from his eye. "Allan," he finished in defeat. "I told you, Gil: I can't leave him. If I did he would hurt you and it would be my fault. I promised him that I'd never leave him. But please," he clutched the front of Gil's coat, fingers trembling, "Gil, please don't tell him anything. Don't give him a reason to take me away again, I don't want to lose you!"

"Shhh, birdie. It's okay," Gil said soothingly. He folded his arms around Matt, hugging him gently (careful of Matt's injuries). "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere and I'm not afraid of Allan. It's going to be okay—"

"No, it's not!" Matt said, pressing his face into Gil's coat, clutching him. "Promise that you won't ever tell him about this, about how you feel," he begged. "Promise you won't do anything stupid." Desperately he looked into Gil's wine-red eyes. "I'm so sorry, Gil. I know it's selfish. I can't love you but I don't want to lose you."

* * *

 _Oh fuck_ , _oh— baby-doll_. _Ah_!" Allan groaned in climax, filling Matt with his hot, sticky seed.

Matt whimpered: " _O-oh_ —!" He knew it was what Allan wanted to hear. His drunken lover collapsed on top of him, exhaling in satisfaction. He was already half-asleep, pressing his lips to Matt's naked chest. "Allan, love?" Matt shifted, but Allan only grunted. "Al, please get off— oh, shit." The redhead wrapped his arms around Matt's stomach, trapping him. Matt sighed and flopped back in defeat. He hated sleeping with Allan's flaccid cock still inside him, but it was useless to struggle. It would only hurt. He debated on calling Gil for assistance but decided against it. Since the German's confession of love a week ago he had tried to avoid bringing up Allan in Gil's presence. It was cowardly, he knew, but the alternative was worse. He wouldn't forgive himself if Gil got hurt. Besides which, he couldn't talk about Allan while looking at Gil. It was too painful.

The next day Matt was tired and unobservant, having slept fitfully. He accidentally crashed into a brunette in the driveway while on his way to collect the post. "Oh, sorry," he said, berating himself.

"You're forgiven," he replied in a thick Austrian accent. He was an attractive man, fine-boned and very well-dressed. "If you would please excuse me." He nodded politely and headed into the house. Matt followed him, climbing the stairs while the stranger—a student, he guessed; the man carried a shoulder-bag—descended. Before entering his apartment Matt heard Gil's voice in greeting:

"Hallo, Roderich. Come on in."

"I'm impressed, Gilbert," said Roderich. "It's spotless in here. I take it your roommates are still in Italy?"

Then the door closed and Matt couldn't hear any more. He recognized the man's name though: Roderich Edelstein was a classmate of Gil's, a skilled composer who played the piano. He and Gil had been partnered together for an assignment that was worth the majority of their final grade. They had been working on it in-class since early-October and would be presenting the final product to a panel of judges in March. It seemed they were using the break to get ahead. It was good planning. Gil had talked about the project often, but Matt had never met the Austrian before, not even in passing until now.

 _I guess they're doing schoolwork tonight_ , _I shouldn't bother them_ , Matt thought, even though he wanted to. He felt lonely. He tried to call Alfred but it went to voicemail. Instead he did the laundry and some housecleaning, all the while hating how domestic his life had become, how boring and meaningless. He thought about the two students downstairs and wished that he could join them, that he had decided to attend University as well, but he didn't even know what he would've chosen to study. He couldn't use Allan's laptop, which was password protected (the American changed the password every few days: "in case it gets hacked," he claimed, but always conveniently forgot to tell Matt the password). He tried to read a book to distract himself but couldn't concentrate on the words. Nothing stuck in his head. He felt so restless, needing to run.

At five-thirty Allan came home from a bad day at work and Matt focused his energy on him. But even Allan's brashness couldn't evoke much of a reaction from Matt. He let Allan insult him and hit him, suffering both in relative silence. He couldn't help it, he felt empty inside. Allan noticed and he didn't like it:

"What's the matter with you today, doll-face?" he snapped. "You fucking sleepwalking or what?!"

* * *

That night, Matt sought to drown his loneliness in alcohol for the first time. Allan thought that it was a great game, urging Matt to match him shot for shot, which Matt did. He threw back his head and let the hard-liquor burn his throat, then he coughed and took another. Clumsily he knocked a shot-glass onto the floor and it shattered. In reply Allan smirked lustily and told Matt to strip, watching him in arousal. He forced Matt down and sucked the sticky, golden liquor from his skin, teasing him: "Like that baby-doll? _Mmm_ , _just like that_.

"Come here," he ordered, pushing Matt's head down. He pulled off his belt and unbuttoned his blue-jeans. Matt knew what was expected of him, he had done it many times before. Habitually he took Allan's hard, slick cock into his mouth and sucked. Allan twisted his fingers in Matt's curls and pulled, guiding him: faster, deeper. " _Oh fuck_! _Yeah_ — _that's fucking good_. _Mattie_ , _doll_ , _you're so fucking— ah_ , _gorgeous._ _You're— m-mine_!" He growled and held Matt's head close, forcing him to swallow a mouthful of salty semen. When Allan finally released him, Matt wiped his face clean and took a swig of liquor straight from the bottle. He felt used and dirty, like a cheap slut, and just wanted to drink himself into a stupor. He wanted to forget about everything and fall into oblivion. But he couldn't. No matter how much he drank he couldn't forget the red-eyed man whom he was in love with.

But which one—which one was it?

 _Goddamn it_! _Why is this happening to me_? _Why do I have to feel this way_?

Matt let Allan fuck him on the kitchen table, then on the couch. He cried-out in pain and pleasure. Drunk, he couldn't contain his voice. The erotic sound encouraged Allan, egging him on. Matt squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the hard contours of Allan's sweaty back, his hips bucking as his lover's cock worked hard inside him. He felt dizzy and disoriented, but this time it felt good. Hard. Fast. Blinding. He moaned and gasped, provoking his lover. He felt desperate, lightheaded. His voice broke in climax, calling out for: " _Gilbert_!"

Everything stopped. Allan stared down at him in disbelief, as if he had misheard: "What did you say?"

Matt paled. Cold fear clutched him, filling him with dread. Allan's silent glare was the calm before the storm. Then, like a gale, he exploded. He ripped himself free of Matt ("ow!") and, shaking Matt violently, yelled: "How many times, Matt?! How many times have you let that German fuck you?!" In anger he backhanded Matt hard across the face. "You fucking, goddamned slut!" Then he punched Matt in the face: once, twice. "I fucking love you!" he shouted, in hurt and fury. "I take care of you! I could've died saving you and this is what I get in return?! You're fucking mine, Matt Williams, not his— _mine_!"

Matt tried to fight Allan's steely fists, to defend himself, but the American was too strong. Matt crawled to his knees and tried to escape, but Allan grabbed him and threw him hard against the wall, then kicked him until Matt's body went numb. His bones broke. He bled. Allan's ring left deep scratches on his skin. Sobbing, Matt begged: "I'm sorry! I love you! I've never cheated on you, I swear!" but Allan ignored him.

The red-eyed redhead took a baseball bat from the corner. And Matt screamed.

* * *

Gil's blood went cold. He had never heard Matt scream so loudly and then just stop. Without a thought he sprinted upstairs and reached the landing just as Allan was carrying Matt outside, half-naked and coatless, into the night. "Hey, Allan! Stopp! What did you do?!" he demanded. He reached them just as Allan was dumping Matt's bloodied, broken body onto the side of the road. For one terrifying, heart-stopping moment Gil was afraid that Matt was dead, that Allan had finally killed him. Then he saw the Canadian take a shallow breath. "Mattie?! Oh Gott! What did you do to him, you ficking bastard?!" he raged at Allan, grabbing the American's collar. "He's—" _dying_.

Allan fought Gil off. He clenched his fists aggressively but he looked worried, afraid that he had gone too far. Ignoring Gil, he nudged Matt with the toe of his boot: "Hey... b-baby-doll?"

Gil growled like an attack-dog and shoved Allan, shouting: "Don't touch him!"

 _Matt. Oh God_ , _Matt_! Gil whipped his head from left-to-right, searching the vacant street. Matt needed help. He snatched his cell-phone from his pocket and dialed 911, but before he could speak Allan plucked it from his hand. In a panicked, near-hysterical voice, he said:

"You've got to help me! My boyfriend's been jumped in front of our house and he's unconscious, beaten-up pretty bad! He's lost a lot of blood, I think he's dying! Please send an ambulance!" He managed to spit out the street address before Gil slapped the cell-phone from his hand.

"You ficking shit!" he seethed, clenching his fists. He raised one, poised for attack. "I could end you!"

Despite fear, Allan grinned. "Go ahead," he challenged, red eyes glinting. "Hit me, you fucking Kraut. The paramedics will think you attacked Matt and you'll go to fucking prison. Go ahead!" he repeated, jostling Gil. "Give me a fucking reason to testify against you and get you fucking deported!"

Gil's whole body shook but his hands were steady: ready. Somewhere in the back of his mind the logical part of his brain was afraid, screaming: _Don't do it_ , _you're not a killer_! But just then Gil felt like he could become one. It would be so easy. Allan's neck was exposed, so squishy-soft. It wouldn't take anything to strangle him, like wringing a piece of meat. He stared unblinking into Allan's ruby-red eyes, relaying a threat. A promise. _If I kill him then Matt will be free. I'll go to prison_ , _but Matt will never suffer again._

 _How do you know that_? said Logic. _How do you know that Allan isn't just the first_? _How will you protect Matt from prison_ , _Gilbert Beilschmidt_?

In the distance he could hear sirens growing louder. He could see flashing lights getting closer. He sucked in a deep breath, glaring at the American in front of him. He hated Allan Jones. But he loved Matt.

In a dangerously low voice, Gil said: "I hope you burn in hell." Then he let Allan go.

* * *

He's a ficking psychopath!" Gil told the police, pointing accusatorily at Allan. Feeling aggressive, he tried to grab for the American, afraid that Allan might try to escape, but a policeman restrained him ("calm down or you'll be arrested for aggression!"). "Don't let him near Mattie!" Gil begged. "He's a ficking liar! He tried to kill him!"

"Don't listen to that fucking Kraut, he's just jealous!" Allan argued. "He's trying to blame me because he's got a fucking hard-on for _my_ boyfriend. Matt's been hurt, _Gilbert_ , can't you think about anything besides your dick?"

Gil lunged at Allan, swiping at him. Two policemen held him back.

"Alright, stop it!" yelled the officer in charge. "Which one of you lives at this residence?"

"I do!" said Gil and Allan in union.

The officer rolled his eyes. "Try that again: Which one of you lives with that boy?" He gestured to Matt's prostrate body, lying on a stretcher in the ambulance.

"I do," Allan repeated. "I told you: he's _my_ boyfriend, we live together. I'm the one who called 911. Please, you've got to let me go with him!"

Allan's request was denied but he was invited to join them at the hospital once he had sobered (he was made to take a test, which revealed that his blood-alcohol level was high). Gil, however, was not. "If you aren't a relative, a roommate, or a, err... lover, then they won't let you in to see him. I'm sorry."

"But he's my friend!" Gil argued desperately. The police officer shrugged in apology and then left.

Gil watched the ambulance speed off, followed by a police escort. Then he watched Allan climb into his truck, flashing Gil a triumphant grin as he gave him the middle-finger, and—ignoring his impairment—drove off in pursuit. Gil paced back-and-forth in the driveway for a minute before making up his mind: _Fuck it. I'm not waiting here_ , _not if Allan's going._ He grabbed his jacket and Francis' car keys and headed for the hospital. They might not let Gil in to see Matt, but he wasn't going to leave him in that place alone with Allan. _I'll sit in the fucking waiting-room until they let me in_ , he decided, stepping on the accelerator. _I'll stay there all night if I have to_. _I won't leave Mattie alone_. _He won't wake-up to Allan's face_ , _not if I can help it._

* * *

Matt was taken into the ER and placed in critical-condition, then moved into recovery. He had suffered a concussion and several broken ribs, a few broken fingers, as well as extensive physical trauma. He had lost a lot of blood. But he was lucky, according to the nurses. Gil, however, disagreed. _This shouldn't have happened_. _It wouldn't have if I had been there_. Feeling guilty, Gil blamed himself. _I let it happen. It's my fault. I've been letting it happen for months_. He sat in the hospital's waiting-room holding a cup of coffee someone had brought him that he was never going to drink. He saw Allan only once in the parking-lot. He had also been denied entrance into the sickroom until Matt was fully stabilized. Gil lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter and then he lit another. Allan sneered at Gil's choice of stress-relief, but he didn't speak. Despite his aggression, Allan looked genuinely disturbed by the results of what he had done. Gil hoped that he was suffering inside.

Finally, after ten hours of observation, Matt's condition was declared stable. Fortunately, because Allan had fallen asleep, Gil was the first to receive this message and was the first one permitted entrance into the sickroom. He thanked the nurse who took him there, then thanked her again when she left. His heart pounded as he neared the bed. Matt looked small and weak, like a fragile-boned snowbird, white-faced and hollow-eyed and bruised from head to toe. Gil inhaled, pursing his lips. Gently he sat down on the bed's edge, ignoring the chair beside it, and he took Matt's cold hand. He said: "Mattie?" but the Canadian didn't move.

Gil lifted Matt's hand and leaned forward, pressing his lips against the boy's knuckles. "I'm so sorry, birdie. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should've been there. Please, Matt—" _Don't go back to him. I couldn't stand it if you got hurt again_ , _I won't let him_! _Please let me protect you_ , _let me love you instead. Please_ , _Mattie_ —

"Ich liebe dich."

Slowly Matt's eyelids opened. He blinked, disoriented, and focused on Gil's face. The ghost of a smile curled his lips, relaxing. "Gil, you're here—"

Then Allan waltzed in. His pace faltered only slightly when he saw Gil, but he maintained his composure: a relieved smile. Gil felt Matt squeeze his hand weakly in fear. It was subtle but clear: _Don't leave me._ Gil positioned himself protectively in front of Matt, glaring at Allan, but the American wasn't perturbed. He ignored Gil completely and knelt beside the bed on the opposite side. He didn't apologize to Matt, he just said: "You scared me, baby-doll," as if it wasn't his fault. As if he hadn't tried to kill Matt in a drunken rage. He took Matt's other hand and kissed it. "You know I'd never hurt you, Mattie. I'm glad you're okay."


	6. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **FIVE**

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **FEBRUARY 2015**

Matt was released from the hospital on the 1st of February. Gil stayed beside him during his whole hospital-stay, whenever his school schedule permitted it (i.e. whenever Matt didn't force him to go), especially if Allan was present. It was tense and silent when he and Gil were together. Matt often pretended to be asleep so he wouldn't have to deal with the antagonism between them. It was cowardly, he knew, but he hated being caught in the middle. He clutched Gil's hand, wishing that Allan would leave. He felt bad, of course. His boyfriend of five years was concerned about his injuries, but he was also the cause of them, the source of Matt's deepest fears. Matt looked at his reflection in the washroom's mirror and cringed: underfed and sickly-pale, his cheeks looked hollow and his eyes were fatigued and feverish; his body was bruised and bandaged, fingers splinted with medical tape. And he thought:

 _I can't do this anymore. I can't go back with Allan_. He wanted to believe that Allan would recover, that he hadn't attacked him on purpose, but Matt felt foolish. He knew better. His abused body was evidence of Allan's intent. _It'll never get better_ , he realized, finally giving-up. He had given Allan over two years of his life, sacrificing everything else—his friends, his home, his future—for an abusive relationship held together by guilt, helplessness, and loneliness. But not anymore: _That's it. I'm done pretending_.

When Gil suggested, practically begged, that Matt go home with him, Matt agreed. He was embarrassed that he needed Gil's protection, but grateful as well. In truth, he didn't have the energy to argue. He was so tired, literally and figuratively.

"Don't go back with him, birdie. Don't trust Allan," Gil said.

Matt nearly laughed then, feeling cynical. He hadn't trusted Allan Jones since 2012. Gil pleaded with Matt to tell the police the truth and file for a restraining order, then find somewhere safe to go, but Matt refused to involve the authorities any further. Despite everything that Allan had done, Matt didn't want to hurt his soon-to-be ex-lover. He didn't want to punish him, as Gil did. Allan would be completely lost without Matt in his life, heartbroken. Nobody deserved that (again, Gil disagreed). But Matt promised to call Alfred as soon as possible. He really didn't want to impose on his friends' lives—Alfred and Arthur; or Gil, Francis, and Antonio—all of whom were students and some of whom were deep in debt. But Matt had finally accepted that he needed help. If Alfred would let him stay with he and Arthur ( _I won't be freeloading_ , _I'll keep-house for them or something_ ), and if Arthur could help him get a job ( _I don't care what it is_ _as long as it pays_ ) he might be able to do this. It wouldn't be easy but it would be a fresh start. It was a good plan, except for one thing: seeking refuge with Alfred meant leaving Gil behind.

 _After everything he's done for me I'd hate to just leave him_ , he thought. When he voiced his concerns, however, Gil only shook his head in sympathy:

"Gott, Allan really fucked you up, didn't he? You don't owe me for anything, birdie."

Matt smiled. "Thanks, Gil. You're one of the best friends I've ever had."

"Ja," Gil hugged him gently. "And you're more than that, Matt."

* * *

Let me take you home," Gil said, holding Matt. The locale—the proximity to Allan—wasn't ideal, but it was better than sending Matt home alone with the angry, abusive redhead (whose fake smile wasn't fooling anyone. The nurses stared wearily at him). _Come home with me and I'll protect you from that psychopath and anything else_ , like a knight-in-shining-armour. Maybe Gil had read too many folktales as a child (he used to like telling Ludwig stories), but he loved the thought of being Matt's hero.

On the day that Matt was released from the hospital, Francis and Antonio arrived to drive he and Gil home. Allan was absolutely furious—a vein bulged in his forehead, his eyes flashed, lips curled back under his lip-ring—but even he understood the repercussions of fighting in a hospital. If he attacked them he would be taken first by security, then to the police station for questioning. Besides, the American couldn't win a three-on-one fight (which is partially why Gil had called his roommates. Gil was a fierce fighter but he wasn't stupid). Allan openly glared at the foursome, red-faced in anger and embarrassment, feeling emasculated perhaps. He tried to catch Matt's eye, but Gil deliberately blocked his view, keeping an arm wrapped around Matt's shoulders. He followed them to the parking lot, where Gil thought he would try to start a fight, but he only said (rather desperately):

"Mattie? Baby-doll, where're you going? Aren't you coming home? Let's go home, darling. S-sweetheart—?" I've missed you. I've been really worried about you, doll. I love you, Mattie. Please don't do this," he begged as Gil helped Matt to Francis' car. "Please don't go with them. I-I'm sorry I lost my temper, it was just an accident!"

"No, it wasn't." Matt stopped beside Francis' car and faced Allan, forcing himself to keep eye-contact with the American. "Allan, I'm sorry," he said soberly, "but I can't do this anymore. I'm done."

Allan blinked: " _Done what_? C'mon, baby-doll, what're you talking about?" Smiling nervously, he reached for Matt, who recoiled. Gil pulled Matt back but it was Francis who grabbed Allan's wrist. Momentarily Allan looked murderous, reflexively wanting to hit Francis, but Antonio's presence stopped him. Together the Europeans flanked the American in warning. Allan pulled himself free but focused on Matt: "Mattie, please don't leave me. I-I'll see you at home, okay? We'll talk then—"

Gil was afraid that Allan's plea would reach Matt's heart, but the Canadian's tone was cold: "No, we won't. I can't do _this_ ," he gestured between them. "It's not right. I loved you once, but you're not that person anymore. I'm sorry, Al, but we're done."

Allan paled: "Are you leaving me?" He looked horrified; Gil felt smug satisfaction. "But Mattie, baby— _why_?"

" _Why_?!" Matt repeated in disbelief, growing bolder. "Because you tried to kill me!"

"No, no— I wouldn't. I love you. You're mine, Mattie," Allan said it like a term-of-endearment. "You belong to me. You promised me, remember? I love you!"

Matt sighed in exhaustion. "That's not enough anymore. I'm going to stay at Gil's tonight. Tomorrow I'll collect my things while you're at work and then I'm leaving. Goodbye, Allan."

The back-passenger door closed behind Gil, following Matt inside. Allan knocked on the window, shouting, but Matt ignored him. He kept his eyes downcast; his body was tense. His left-hand fingers were splinted, broken, but he squeezed Gil's hand with his right. Despite the bleak situation, Gil felt like celebrating. He fought the urge to smile (thinking it would be inappropriate). That is, until he saw Matt's teary eyes. Then Gil felt like a dummkopf, wanting to rejoice while his friend was in pain. Matt and Allan had lived together for two years; they had been lovers for five years; they had been a couple for eight years; and they had been friends since childhood. Allan had been connected to every part of Matt's life since he was six-years-old. He had always relied on Allan. He had always loved him. Maybe a part of him always would.

Gil tried to understand for Matt's sake. He searched his brain for something supportive to say but couldn't think of anything that wasn't an insult to Matt's ex-lover (he hated the redhead so much!). Instead he pulled Matt into a one-armed hug and held him as Francis drove back to the house.

 _You'll get through this_ , _Mattie. I'll help you. You'll be just fine_ , _better than fine. I know you're hurting right now_ , _but it'll get easier. I'm here_ , _I'll take care of you. I promise._

* * *

Matt leaned against Gil's headboard, wearing Gil's favourite black t-shirt, legs buried beneath the blankets, which pooled at his waist. He had just woken from a—he glanced at the alarm-clock—four-hour nap. He had fallen asleep as soon as they had returned to the house, too tired (and drugged-up on painkillers) to do anything more but stumble drowsily into Gil's bedroom. It was now ten o'clock at night and he hadn't eaten anything yet, but he wasn't hungry. He wasn't anything really. He sat in the dark, staring at a band poster on the opposite wall, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and body. He should've felt like crying. He should've felt guilty about breaking his promise to Allan and abandoning him, his rescuer, his lover. He should've felt scared, not knowing what the future might hold. He should've felt sad, or angry, or lonely, or hurt, but he didn't. He had already shed enough tears for and because of Allan Jones and now all he felt was numb.

Absently Matt listened to the radio. The forecast was predicting a blizzard, the biggest and coldest storm of the year: it advised listeners to stay indoors and expect power-outages and loss of cell-phone reception. Matt snorted. Boston snow storms could be fierce, knocking out power-lines, but the temperature rarely dipped below negative-five degrees so Matt wasn't worried.

He laid back down, burying himself beneath Gil's blankets. The room—the whole house—was silent.

Then the bedroom's door opened and Gil entered quietly, thinking that Matt was asleep. Matt closed his eyes and pretended to be, hoping that Gil would stay if he thought Matt was asleep. Matt fought the urge to smile when he felt Gil's weight added to the mattress and the German's knuckles as he gently touched his face, brushing back an errant curl. Despite his tough-guy bravado, Gil was a gentle person. He had a secret affinity for small children and animals; they flocked to him, sensing kindness and seeking protection. His fingers lingered, caressing Matt's cheek, which felt good. It was nice to feel safe and loved simultaneously for the first time in two-and-a-half years, and, in appreciation, Matt pressed his lips to Gil's palm, kissing it.

Gil paused. " _Mattie_ ," he whispered, a soft exhale.

Matt opened his eyes and looked up at Gil, lips smiling against the German's palm. Gil started to pull back, but Matt stopped him: "No, stay," he said, holding Gil's hand to his cheek. He ran his thumb enticingly over Gil's defined knuckles without breaking eye-contact: soft violet staring into wine-red. Others thought that Gil's eyes looked aggressive—and perhaps they did to his enemies—but Matt thought they were beautiful, like maple leaves in the heart of autumn. Gil was noticeably nervous, but wordlessly he sat back down. Matt leaned closer and urged Gil to do likewise. Allan had always thought of Matt as rather seductive, and, unintentionally perhaps, Matt played with it now. He closed the gap between them, crawling onto Gil's lap (ignoring his tense, aching muscles; Matt was good at ignoring pain). He touched the self-conscious German's blushing face, and thought: _Thank-you for everything_ , _Gil_. _I owe you so much_. But he didn't say it aloud. Instead he let his actions speak for him. He pressed himself against Gil's chest and kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, sucking the tender skin. Gil inhaled, chest swelling, and then swallowed in uncertainty. Matt almost laughed. The German was so _cute_ ( _not a description he would've liked_ , Matt thought). He slipped his hand beneath Gil's t-shirt and slid his fingers up over the contours of Gil's abs, then down, toying at exploration. An involuntary sound escaped Gil and Matt grinned. _I know you love me_ , _Gil. I know you want me. Go ahead_ , he urged, fingering the waistband of Gil's black-jeans, kissing his neck, _take me._

"Nein," said Gil, staring dumbly. He grabbed Matt's wrist. Matt blinked in confusion. He tried to kiss Gil's lips but Gil stopped him, pulling him back by the shoulders. He was red-faced and breathless, but he managed to say: "What are you doing, birdie?"

There was a note of disapproval (disappointment, even) in Gil's voice that surprised Matt. Suddenly he felt _very_ embarrassed and rejected. It wasn't a good feeling. "I-I thought you wanted this," he said quietly, looking down. "I thought you wanted me." _Oh no_ , _what did I do wrong_? he panicked. _Did I misread him_? _I thought that Gil wanted me sexually_ , _but maybe not_. _Is it because of Allan or what Allan's done to me_? _Am I ugly like this_ , _all beaten-up_? _Or am I too— used_? Ashamed, Matt wanted to disappear. He let his curls hide his face.

Gil said: "Mein Gott, you're fucked-up."

Matt thought: _Yes_ , _I know I am_ — "Eh?!"

Without warning Gil pulled Matt into a hug. "You're so fucked-up, birdie," he repeated pitifully, sounding sad. "This isn't who you are, sex isn't all you've got. You're more than just your body and that pretty face. I love _you_ , Matt." Here he pulled back, looking at Matt. "I want you, but I want you to want me too. I don't want you to feel guilty or indebted to me. I won't be your rebound. I won't take advantage of you. I am _not_ Allan," he said sternly, forcing Matt to meet his gaze, "and I won't let you make me feel like him."

Gil's tone, the truth in his eyes, was absolute. He was insulted. _And why shouldn't he be_? _I've put him in a horrible position_. _I've tried to take advantage of his feelings for me_ , _making him feel like a villain. Like Allan._ "I'm sorry, Gil," he said softly. _What am I doing_ , _trying to trade Allan for Gil_? _Is that what he is_ , _a rebound_? _Oh God_ , _I_ am _so fucked-up_! _Why can't I just love like a normal person_?

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, birdie," Gil said. "I'll always be your friend. But don't tease me," he shook his head. "Don't give me false hope, Matt. If you don't love me the way I love you then tell me now."

"Gil, I—" Matt faltered. _I don't know if I_ can _love you. I don't think I know how._

* * *

 _Toni_?!" Francis shouted.

Matt's heart sank. _Oh please no_ , _please don't be what I think_ —

He followed Gil into the kitchenette and found Francis supporting Antonio, who was clutching his ribs. His teeth were clenched, face distorted in pain. "What happened?!" Gil demanded. "Toni?"

Antonio struggled to speak. The breath had been knocked out of his lungs. Francis raged in French, talking too fast for Gil's limited knowledge of the language. He misunderstood Francis' words, but Matt knew: "Allan hit Toni with his truck! He did it on purpose, he tried to kill him! That psychopath! Call the police!" he said in anger.

Matt's stomach flipped. He hated involving the authorities but this time Allan had gone too far. _He attacked Antonio_ , _an innocent bystander_ , _because of me._ "Oh, fuck!" he cursed, but nobody heard him.

"You know he'll only deny it," Gil argued. "It's Toni's word against Allan's. He'll blame it on a hit-and-run or call it an accident. Either way they won't be able to hold him for more than twenty-four hours without proof—"

"I don't care, just call them!" Francis snapped. "I'll take Toni to the hospital." Antonio tried to protest but Francis and Gil ignored him. Francis helped the Spaniard into a parka—it was snowing hard—as Gil dialed the police station. Matt stood statuesque, feeling sick. He watched Francis check Antonio for signs of injury, insisting that he needed x-rays at the very least. "I think you've got cracked ribs, it's already bruising," he reported.

"I don't want to go," Antonio choked out. "I don't... like needles. I don't want to see blood."

"I know," said Francis in sympathy. "But you have to go, you could have internal bleeding. I'll be with you the whole time, don't worry. Gil, you stay here with Matt (to guard Matt). Don't answer the door unless you know that it's the police," he added in warning. "Don't do anything stupid, just let the police deal with Allan. You stay here."

They left and the police arrived. It was the same officer who had responded to Allan's call a month ago, only this time he looked weary. Matt hid in Gil's bedroom while Gil explained the situation. His voice was raised in anger, as if he wanted Allan to hear him upstairs: "If he's not upstairs then he'll be at the bar," he said disdainfully (and this coming from a German who enjoyed a good, dark beer). Gil directed them to the bar, then the hospital. He denied all of their questions regarding Matt and then sent them off.

It was nearly midnight before Gil poked his head into the bedroom. "I'm tired," he said, sighing deeply.

Matt shifted sideways on the bed, pulling down the blankets. "Then sleep, Gil."

Gil considered Matt for a minute, as if he thought the boy was trying to seduce him again. Then he relented and pulled off his t-shirt (he hated sleeping in his day-clothes). Matt had never noticed how angular Gil's body was, so sharp, like a snowflake. There was a pale-pink scar on his left pectoral. Gil misread Matt's curiosity, and said: "Don't worry about Toni, he'll be alright. He's tougher than he looks and acts."

"Is he afraid of blood?" Matt asked, distracting himself.

"It's not like that," Gil said, crawling into the bed. He shimmied down and got comfortable, one arm braced behind his silver-white head. "Toni suffers from night-terrors, he always has. His dreams get really... bloody. He and Francis have been through a lot since leaving Italy. Francis copes in... other ways; Toni has nightmares."

"Oh. I didn't know," said Matt lamely. Francis and Antonio had always seemed so confident to him; he had always admired their smiles. It had never occurred to him that other people might be hurting too, keeping secrets.

Gil fell asleep quickly, which was abnormal for him ( _he really must've been tired_ , Matt thought). He watched Gil in the dark, it was the first time they had ever slept together in the same bed. The sharp lines of his face should've looked harsh, but instead they looked artistic: Gil was truly one of a kind. It was the first time that Matt had ever seen Gil let his guard down. Awake he was always vigilant, even when he seemed relaxed, but asleep he was peaceful. _I wonder if this is who Gil really is_ , _who he was before I came here_. _I've caused him so much trouble._ Matt sighed. Antonio had been attacked simply because he lived next-door to Matt, because Allan had deemed him a threat: he, Francis, and Gil. _Oh_ , _please not Gil_. Matt would never forgive himself if Gil got hurt because of him. _Which is why I'm leaving tomorrow. I'll distance myself from here and hopefully you'll be alright._ But deep down he knew that he was still fooling himself. He could leave the neighbourhood and move-in with Alfred and Arthur, but Allan would follow him, chase him, and his friends would get hurt. It wouldn't matter that Alfred was his brother, Allan would destroy anything that got in his way. He hated being told no. And if he couldn't find Matt—if Matt tried to hide, or got a restraining order (like his friends urged him to do)—the American would become self-destructive and Matt would be the one to blame. Together they had left Rochester, but misfortune seemed to follow he and Allan wherever they went.

 _It's not entirely his fault_ , Matt knew. _I've let him control my life for years_ , _even before the accident. It's my fault that neither of us can function properly_. _I've been feeding this downward spiral for too long. Of course Allan feels defensive_ , _he's not the only one who's changed. I have too. I'm not the same person I used to be and I hate myself for what I've before. For what I've done_. He looked down at Gil, feeling sad. _I'm no better than Allan. I tried to replace him with Gil_. _I took advantage of Gil's feelings for me and tried to seduce him. I just wanted him to stay with me_ , _to protect me._ _I'm so tired of feeling bullied_ , Matt thought in self-loathing. _I'm tired of everything. I don't want to be afraid forever_. But more than that: _I don't want to be less than what someone else deserves._

 _It hurts too much. I don't want to feel like this._

Slowly Matt crawled out of bed. He dressed in blue-jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, then pulled on his shoes. He paused at the bedside, staring down at Gil. A strong sense of longing bubbled-up inside him, but he forced it down. He didn't want to feel anything; he wished he didn't. _I don't want to hurt you anymore_ , _Gil. You deserve so much better._ He leaned down, wanting to kiss the German, but stopped. He had made a decision and didn't want to test his resolve. He was afraid ( _still so afraid_!) that it would break. He didn't want Gil to wake up.

Instead he whispered (barely audible): "Goodbye, Gil." And he left.

The cold was biting outside. The wind howled, blowing snow in waves across the street. It slammed into Matt like Allan's bat, knocking him off-balance. He walked down the deserted street; the streetlights flickered. He shivered and his teeth began to chatter, hugging himself. But it was good. It gave him something to think about besides his own mistakes. He wanted to feel numb. He walked slowly to the park where Gil had confessed love to him, and, bypassing the swings, he laid down in the ankle-deep snow. He closed his eyes and let the cold burn his skin; he let it seep into his clothes, freezing the fabric before he even registered it was wet; he let ice-crystals sculpt his curls, growing heavy; he let the wind blow through him, pelting him with snowflakes. He breathed slowly, laboured. The cold hurt his lungs. His injured body ached and then numbed until he couldn't feel anything, not pain, and eventually not the cold either. He let the exhaustion overtake him, like falling peacefully asleep.

 _I don't want to feel hurt anymore. I want it to stop forever_.

He laid on the ground with his arms spread out, digging shallow tracks in the snow, and he smiled:

 _Just a little snowbird._

* * *

Gil awoke for no reason. He had been exhausted, dreaming deeply. His bedroom was warm and dark and quiet and— _empty_. "Matt?" he said hoarsely. He blinked, red eyes scanning the darkness, but the boy was gone. _Gone_. A beat of fear stabbed him. _Why does that word scare me_?

"Mattie?" he called louder, pulling back the blankets. His bare feet touched the floor and he shivered. _It's so cold_ , he thought, but the heat was on (Francis and Antonio detested the cold and always kept the thermostat turned-up, toasty-warm). _So why do I feel so cold_? _Why is my heart pounding_? Gil stepped into the lounge, surveying it and the kitchenette. The washroom door was hanging open, dark. It was quiet. He could hear the clock ticking. "Matt? Hey birdie, you here?" The silence scared him. He left the lights turned off as he walked to the entrance and, without fully registering what he was doing, he tugged on his coat and boots (barefoot and bare-chested underneath). He left the basement-apartment but paused in the stairwell, looking at the first-floor's door. _Is Allan inside_? _Is Matt_? "Nein," he said aloud. Something stronger pulled him outside into the storm. The wind plowed into him fiercely, carrying snowflakes that momentarily blinded him. He shivered. He could see his short breaths as they materialized in front of him. He hunched his shoulders and soldiered on, searching the empty street.

"Matt!" he yelled, but the storm was louder.

 _Am I crazy_? _Why would Mattie be out here in this_? _He's probably fine_ , _at the hospital with Francis_ , _or gone to Alfred's_ ( _how long was I asleep for_?). _Matt's not stupid. He's sick and injured_ , _in his condition the storm would_ —

Kill him.

Gil stopped, paralyzed. Then he ran, shouting for Matt: "Matt! Mattie?!"

 _No_ , _no_ , _no_.

He slipped and fell, hitting the ground hard. Then he picked himself up and ran faster, shouting:

"Mattie, where are you?! Answer me!"

 _Please_ , _please answer me if you can._

He ran past the park twice; the floodlights were out. The third time, however, one light flickered weakly, as if signalling to Gil. It stood just beyond the swings, lonely, spitting out a weak circle of light that illuminated the snowy ground. Gil's body shook—from cold or fear, he didn't know—as he advanced. _No_ , _no_ , _no_. He saw Matt's cardinal-red sleeve, skin all but invisible against the snow's backdrop. The tips of his fingers were discoloured, frost-bitten. _No_ , _no_ , _no_. Gil gained speed yet he felt like the world was slowing, as if he was stuck in a nightmare running backwards. Matt's body was covered in a thin layer of snow, his figure was camouflaged. Gil fell indelicately to his knees beside Matt and dusted the snow off his face. He looked like a corpse, icy-cold. _No_ , _no_ , _no_! Gil's belly filled with dread and his eyes filled with tears. Trembling, he touched Matt's cheek and his lips. He couldn't feel Matt's breath, nor could he feel a pulse. "Nein!" he growled weakly, choked. "Birdie, Mattie— _why_?"

 _Why is this happening_? _Why did you do this_?! _Everything was going to be okay_ , _Matt_. _You were safe_ , _you were—are—loved_. _Why would you throw it all away_ , _your life_?!

Gil couldn't believe it, shock and mind-numbing pain seized him. _I failed him. I couldn't protect him_. _I couldn't save him from Allan. I couldn't save him from himself_. It hurt. He couldn't breathe. _It hurts so much_! "Matt, wake up! Please wake up! I love you, Matt! Please don't be dead!" Gil sobbed, pressing his forehead against Matt's. So dead-cold. And he screamed:

"NEIN!"


	7. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **SIX**

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **FEBRUARY 2015**

Gil felt submerged. He sat on the futon, staring helplessly as the paramedics worked on Matt. It had been two hours since Gil had found Matt in the snow; since he had carried him back to the toasty-warm house, trying not to panic; since he had stripped Matt naked and wrapped him in blankets, holding him tightly, rubbing his skin hard, trying to stimulate blood-flow. The paramedics arrived quickly, but it felt too long. Gil felt like he had been sitting there squeezing Matt forever, staring down at him as the ice-crystals melted. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, no matter how hard he tried. He should've felt foolish, blubbering like a baby when the paramedics arrived, but he didn't. He let them take Matt to his bedroom, lying him down. And he waited, feeling numb with fear. Francis and Antonio returned—Antonio had two cracked ribs, bandaged—and sat with him, flanking him. They rubbed his back and whispered in reassurance (Francis' eyes were red-rimmed, holding back tears), but Gil barely heard them.

Finally one of the paramedics approached the distraught trio. She said: "I don't know how, but your friend is alive. His heartbeat's extremely weak," she added, before Gil could speak, "but his condition has stabilized. His body was pretty much frozen and, honestly, that's what saved him. That— and you," she said, nodding at Gil. "He should've been dead when you found him. Your friend is _very_ strong, but you saved him. That being said," she paused, staring pointedly at the three students. "I'm not stupid. I'm not going to pretend that I can't see the bruises on that boy, or the broken bones. He was just released from the hospital and this is the third time in a month that you've called 911. It's as much my job to protect people as it is any law-enforcement officer, so if any of you know something about what's been going on here then I suggest you tell someone. Otherwise I'm putting that boy on suicide-watch." She glanced between them: "Well, anyone—?"

Gil bit his tongue. He wanted to tell her about Allan. _But it's not my secret to tell_ , _is it_? He didn't want to betray Matt's trust, but he wouldn't sit idly by and let this continue, not anymore. _It doesn't matter what Matt wants_ , _it's for his own good_. He sighed and took a deep breath.

"It's complicated, how long have you got?" said Francis.

He escorted the paramedic to the kitchenette, offering her a cup of coffee as they talked. Gil was grateful to Francis. He, himself, couldn't talk—or think—about Matt's relationship without feeling sick and resentful. He felt like he had just dodged a bullet. Instead he sat with Antonio until the paramedics told him that he could see Matt. Slowly he walked into his bedroom, like a sleepwalker. He looked down at Matt's unconscious body and wiped his teary eyes, feeling conflicted: worried and sad but mostly angry. He stood there awkwardly, wanting to keep his distance, but at the same time wanting to crawl into the bed and hug Matt. He was so relieved that Matt was alive, the shock hadn't yet worn off. He settled for sitting on the bed's edge and hadn't moved when the female paramedic knocked gently on the door. Gil lifted his tired eyes to look at her.

"Francis told us what's been going on. Allan Jones has been taken in for questioning for the earlier hit-and-run and now for this, but he's unlikely to be charged if Mathew won't testify against him."

Gil shook his head. "He won't."

"Then can I suggest you take him to a safer location?" she advised. "And tell him to buy a lottery ticket when he wakes up, because that boy is ridiculously lucky to be alive— and to have you for a friend."

* * *

 **ROCHESTER, NEW YORK**

 **FALL 2008**

Matt flinched. Allan's fist connected with the bully's cheek and the boy cried-out, cursing: "Son-of-a-fucking-bitch!"

Allan's ruby-red eyes glinted, glaring at the senior. "If you touch my friend again I'll kill you," he threatened. The big, brunette senior spat on the ground at Allan's feet, then skulked away, muttering: " _psycho_!" Allan let him go. He turned to Matt, who had been knocked to the ground. The fourteen-year-old freshman was wide-eyed in shock. His cheek was red from the senior's fist. "You okay, Mattie?" Allan asked in concern, kneeling.

Meekly Matt nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. You didn't have to— _ah_!" Without warning, Allan took both of Matt's hands and pulled him up.

"Of course I did, Matt." Allan smiled. "You're my best-friend, I'll always protect you," he teased, mussing-up Matt's curls. "C'mon, let's get something to eat."

"Al, we've got class," Matt said, biting back a smile as Allan pulled him.

"So? I'm hungry, I'm craving ice-cream."

Matt frowned. "You don't even like ice-cream."

"Yeah, I know. But you love it. C'mon, I'll buy."

"What about Alfred?" Matt asked, glancing over-the-shoulder at the high-school.

"He's in class. Let's go, just us."

Allan bought two ice-creams for he and Matt: chocolate for himself, maple-nut for Matt. They walked down the street, talking, and stopped on the train's overpass, leaning against the guardrail. Matt finished his ice-cream and then finished Allan's ("it's too sweet," the American complained), licking his fingers. "What?" he asked, feeling a little lightheaded. "Why are you staring at me?" He noted Allan's concentration. He loved those pretty ruby-red eyes that always looked so intense. Allan Jones was his best-friend: a spirited and incredibly handsome boy whose smile gave Matt butterflies in his stomach. He flushed and looked down. But Allan said:

"I'm staring because you're gorgeous, Matt."

Matt's head whipped up in surprise, staring open-mouthed. "I, uh— _wha_ —?"

Allan grinned, endeared by Matt's reaction. The sunlight caught his lip-ring, glinting. Brazenly he brushed an errant curl off Matt's forehead. Then his face got serious, and huskily he said: "Matt"—Matt's heartbeat skipped—"I'm in love with you."

"I, you— are? _Me_?"

"Yeah. You, doll-face," Allan chuckled. "You're my best-friend, I've loved you for a long time. I've wanted to kiss you for a long time— can I?"

Matt's first kiss was soft and clumsy and tasted like ice-cream. It was sweet. The next time they kissed it was harder, clumsier, and tasted like Allan's hot lips, his slick tongue. They were in Allan's dark, stuffy bedroom (the one he shared with Alfred, who was conveniently out). Half-naked and sweaty, lips locked together, Matt wrapped his legs around Allan's waist, wanting to feel closer to him. He let Allan guide the fast-pace rhythm, following his lead. Matt didn't know what he was doing after all. He just knew that it felt good, new and exciting—it felt right. _This is where I always want to be_.

"I love you," he whispered, a thousand times since then. He felt so happy, like his heart would burst. He felt dizzy, gasping: "I love you, Allan Jones. I love—"

Suddenly he saw a bright flash of light. Tires spun on loose gravel. Glass shattered. And Allan screamed.

Matt couldn't breathe. He felt a deep, heavy pressure on his chest: terror and guilt. Allan's unconscious weight was crushing him. Allan's weight pressing down on him, his rock-hard cock working inside of him, hurting him, demanding: " _Scream_ , _baby-doll. I want to hear your voice_." Matt gasped. _It's different_ , _why is it different_?! _This isn't my Allan_ , he thought in fear. He felt Allan's steely fists beating on him, wielding a baseball bat relentlessly, breaking his bones; drawing blood; making him cry and scream. Allan saying: " _You know I'd never really hurt you_ , _Mattie._ _It was just an accident— your fault_ , _not mine_. _I love you_." Those intense ruby-red eyes, which he had so loved before, glared at him now, burning like fire. Matt felt small and weak; ugly and undeserving. He hated how pathetic he was, what he had let himself become. But he was scared, terrified, and soon he couldn't recall what it had been like before. The Allan who had been his best-friend was slowly slipping away and, though Matt tried desperately to hold onto him, it was useless. He was losing Allan and himself. He couldn't breathe. _Help_! he thought helplessly. _Somebody_ , _please help me_ —

" _Ich liebe dich_ , _Matt_. _I would_ never _hurt you_ , _I promise_."

Gil's strong, safe embrace held him. He remembered Gil's surprisingly gentle touch; his clean masculine scent; his kind, growling voice: " _birdie_." He loved Gil's honest smile, hiding no secret intent: his fairytale knight. Matt clutched him like a life-saver, like a skydiver. He didn't want to fall. _Don't leave me_ , _Gil._ He tried desperately to hold onto the feisty German, but he could feel Gil's body becoming less tangible, slipping away like a ghost. Just like he had lost Allan. But it wasn't Gil who was disappearing, it was Matt. And it was terrifying. _No_ , _please_! _What have I done_?! _I'm sorry_ , _I'm sorry for everything_! _I don't want to die_ , _please help me_!

 _Gilbert—_

* * *

 **BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS**

 **FEBRUARY 2015**

Gilbert—" Matt whispered, slowly regaining consciousness. It felt like waking from a _very_ long, deep sleep. A teardrop rolled down his cheek, landing on Gil's pillow. He groaned weakly, quietly. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw Gil.

Gil, whose red eyes looked fierce: betrayed. "Matt," he said, dangerously low. He was sitting on the bed's edge, holding Matt's leg through the blankets; angry, but needing that physical contact. "You're so ficking stupid."

Matt's eyes filled with tears. "I know. I'm sorry—"

Gil squeezed his leg, conveying clouded emotion. His hand was shaking but his gaze was steady. " _Why_? Why did you do it? Why don't you care about your own goddamned life?!"

Matt hesitated. Then he admitted: "Because I didn't know what else to do." His voice broke, growing soft. "I didn't want anyone else to get hurt because of me. I thought that if it was just me it would be okay. It would finally be over. But I-I got so scared." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm not even strong enough to end it."

"You're wrong, Matt." Gil's tone was inarguable. "It's _because_ you're strong that you couldn't do it, that's why you survived. They said you should've died, but you didn't."

"Me, strong—?" He was doubtful, burying his face in his hands. "No, I'm not. I can't even—"

Gil took Matt's wrists and lowered his hands, revealing his face. "Look at me, Matt. Nein, don't look down, look me in the eye. You think I don't know what it's like to feel helpless, to give up? You think I don't understand?"

Releasing Matt, he lifted his shirt and ghosted over the pinkish scar on his pectoral: "What did you think this was, a birthmark? I wasn't going to tell you. I hoped I wouldn't have to, but when I was sixteen I tried to kill myself," he confessed. The Canadian exhaled in shock, violet eyes going wide. Something instinctual within Matt shouted: _NO_! It was too painful to fathom, a world without Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Gil continued: "I told you that I grew-up in Germany on a military base. I told you about my Vater and my _perfect_ little bruder. I loved them but I caused them a lot of grief. People didn't like me, I was too different. I got beat-up a lot. The older boys on the base liked to bully me, tease me about my looks and attitude. And I was really stupid, I walked right into it every time. I always took their bait because I wanted to prove myself, but it always made me feel worse afterward. I've always picked fights." He shrugged. "I don't know why. It was lonely, especially as a teenager. Stupid became reckless. I did a lot of things that I'm not proud of, and I let a lot of people do things to me that were even worse. But nobody wants a bony, temperamental albino. I was always the rebound." He paused. The implication hurt Matt, but Gil continued before he could speak. "When I was sixteen I stabbed myself," he tapped his chest. "FYI, not the best way to go. It hurts like a mutterficker and it's too hard. I punctured a lung—it still hurts to take deep breaths in cold weather—but Ludwig found me before I bled-out. He saved me. He told me that if I ever tried to commit suicide again he would follow me into hell just so he could kick my arsch.

"So don't pretend like you're the only one who's ever felt pain, Matt. Don't give up on me and tell me that it's not worth it, because I've been there. I know," he emphasized seriously. "I hate that you feel that way. Nobody should ever feel helpless like that. I know it hurts, but that's how you know that you're strong. That's how you know it's worth all the shit you put up with. It can always get better," he promised, "but not if you're dead." Gently, unashamed, he took Matt's face in his hands and wiped off tears. "We're going to fix this mess, we're going to figure this out together," he soothed, holding Matt. "I'll help you. It's going to be okay, birdie. Trust me."

"I do trust you," said Matt honestly. "And I—" He paused. His breath caught, heart pounding. Shyly he looked directly at Gil, and said: "You asked me if I loved you and I honestly didn't know then. I was so scared. But now I know: Yes. I love you, Gil. And I want to be with you." He smiled, he couldn't help it. The confession was pleasantly, and suddenly, liberating. "The night you confessed to me I was terrified, stupid, but a part of me was really happy. Scared and confused, but so happy. It's the part that's been in love with you for months now, the part that I've been trying to ignore. You're not just a rebound, Gil. You're the most important person in my life, the friend I needed. I wouldn't have survived these past few months without you, but more than that my heartbeat skips every time I look at you." He chuckled nervously, eyes full of unshed tears. Gil grinned lopsidedly in disbelief. " You're what I've always wanted, Gil, what I thought I had with Allan," Matt admitted, "to fall in love with my best-friend. I feel so safe when I'm with you, so happy and loved.

"But if you don't believe me then we can go slow. As soon as they let me I'm still going to Alfred's," he said, sobering. "I just need to distance myself from everything that's happened. There's still a lot that I need to figure out for myself. The distance might be good for both of us," he suggested. "It'll give you time to decide what you want to do, to reconsider if this is really what you want— me, I mean. You said it yourself: I'm pretty fucked-up. I just— I'm sorry I didn't realize all of this sooner. I hope I didn't miss my chance."

Gil shook his head. "I don't need to go slow or distance myself or reconsider," he said decidedly. "I've loved you since the first time I saw you standing there, Matt. I might not have known it then, but I figured it out pretty fast. Everyone's fucked-up in their own way, that's what makes us unique," he grinned, teasing. "I understand why you've got to go to Alfred's, but don't forget that I'm here." Gently he touched the back of Matt's neck and drew him closer, pressing their foreheads together. "Take as long as you want, birdie, but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to change my mind. Ich liebe dich."

Matt smiled. "I love you too."

They kissed. Gil shifted, lowering his face to meet Matt's lips. It was soft and warm, despite Matt's cold skin. Matt let himself sink into Gil's strong, solid touch—not fading, not slipping away—lingering there. It was a chaste kiss, gentle. Matt fought the urge to deepen it, too used to Allan's fast-paced rhythm. He fought the urge to physically show Gil just how much he loved and wanted him. _Go slow_ , _don't force it_ , he coached himself. _Gil's not going anywhere_. _I have to believe that_. Then Gil did something that silenced Matt's fears. It was simple: he smiled into Matt's lips. And suddenly Matt felt the world turn upside-down. A wave of sentimentality and bubbling excitement overwhelmed him. His body was sick and exhausted, but in that moment he felt so happy that his eyes beaded with tears. One fell, but Gil caught it, and Matt relaxed for the first time in, well—forever. For the first time he didn't feel rushed and he didn't feel forced. For the first time he felt confident in himself and his own desires. And it was because of Gil, his friend.

 _I love you_ , _Gil_. _This time I'm going to do this properly. I won't be bullied or forced. I won't be scared. It's going to be my choice_ : _you're my choice. I'm going to let myself fall in love with you for real_.

"Mattie," Gil whispered, teasing Matt's pale-blonde curls. He kissed the boy's bottom lip, sucking it. "I know you need to get out of here, to do things for yourself. I understand. But that doesn't mean I don't want to take care of you, protect you. I'm here, okay? I told you: I'll never hurt you. I'll do anything for you."

Matt blushed. He couldn't stop smiling. Coyly, he said: "Tomorrow, will you drive me to Alfred's?"

Gil kissed him. Then nodded: "Ja."


	8. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **SNOWBIRD**

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

 **VIENNA, AUSTRIA**

 **FALL 2016**

Guten Morgen, birdie." Gil kissed Matt's temple, rousing him. Matt smiled and sighed softly in contentment, laughing when Gil pressed his cheek playfully against his. It was a hot, bright morning. Sunshine filtered in through the open blinds, bathing the two lovers in a golden glow that made them both look pale. Gil's silver-white hair winked, bedraggled; it stood on-end. Matt's curls looks silky and his big, violet eyes smiled. He yawned. Huskily, Gil said: "You're going to be late for class," as he kissed Matt's naked shoulder.

"And you're going to be late for work," Matt countered. "You'll get a lecture from Roderich if you're late."

Gil rolled his eyes, then said: "He can wait."

Eleven months ago, Gil and Roderich had presented their final composition to the school's board of judges. The judges had been so impressed by the students' work ("how very original!") that they had recommended them for several dual-positions, working as partners, in Europe. After much thoughtful consideration and arguing, they had—Roderich insisted—decided to accept an offer from a prestigious orchestra in Austria. Matt couldn't believe it and he couldn't have been happier: "That's amazing, Gil. I'm so proud of you!" Upon receiving the news, he threw himself into Gil's arms in excitement and Gil lifted him off his feet, spinning in giddy circles.

"Ja, it's pretty awesome. But," Gil paused, looking serious, "I don't know how long I'll be in Austria. A few years at least. I can't leave you, Mattie. I love you too much," he smiled. Then Gil's albino-white cheeks blushed and, stuttering somewhat, he said: "Would you consider coming with me? I, err... know you've been looking at schools in Canada, but I found a few in Austria you might like: French-speaking schools," he clarified. "If you want, I mean... it's your choice. If you don't want to leave North America I understand. I know that you like living with Alfred and—"

"Yes," Matt interrupted.

Gil blinked: "Ja—?"

"Yes, I'll go with you to Austria."

Neither of them vocalized what both of them were thinking: that Allan Jones, who was on parole for charges of domestic violence and attempted murder (Antonio hadn't spared any details when testifying against him), couldn't leave the country. His psychological profile was currently undergoing analysis to determine the next course of action. As Allan's next-of-kin, Alfred had been consulted about it and he kept the others well-informed on the proceedings (while simultaneously keeping Allan away from his home: Matt and Arthur). Alfred Jones wasn't afraid of anything.

It had taken no time for Arthur to find Matt work on-campus. He had pulled strings (bribed the dean) and got Matt a job as a barista at the University he attended. He had helped Matt build his resume for school applications, because Matt had decided that he really wanted to go to school, even if it was a late-start. He and Gil didn't see a lot of each other in the summer months following Allan's initial arrest, after Matt had moved-in with Alfred and Arthur. Gil was busy with school and graduation and Matt was busy working, reintegrating himself into society. They spoke on the phone every night (Matt had kept Gil's cell-phone with the cracked screen, despite Gil's insistence that he get a new one; Matt's sentimentality rejected the thought), but the next time that Gil had actually seen Matt in person he couldn't believe the transformation. Freedom agreed with the violet-eyed Canadian. Aside from his lively, cheerful demeanor, Matt had gained ten desperately needed pounds and looked flushed with health. And though Allan was walking free and the future was still uncertain, for the first time since Gil had known him Matt didn't look afraid. He looked happy, loved. And for good reason.

In August Matt received an acceptance letter from a French-speaking school in Austria and in September he hugged Alfred and Arthur goodbye (for now) and boarded a plane. Gil and Roderich were already in Vienna by then and had found a two-bedroom apartment to rent. Gil met Matt at Vienna International Airport and scooped him into a bone-crushing hug that shocked passers-by. And he said: "You scared, Mattie?"

"Yes, a little," Matt replied, "but it's a good scared." Eight months earlier, Matt wouldn't have thought it was possible to be _good scared_. Now it filled him with hope.

Matt crawled out of their shared bed and readied himself for class. His schooling was expensive but he had flat-out refused Gil's offer to pay for it:

"C'mon, birdie. It's fine. I'm earning a pretty decent wage now because of my awesome talent!" he grinned cockily. "It's not worth you being in-debt forever, or working yourself sick when you should be studying. Just take the money, ja?"

"No," Matt argued. "I want to do this for myself. This," he said, grudgingly accepting Gil's cheque, "is just a loan. I'll pay back every penny and you won't complain. It's my choice and I've made it."

"I know, but I'm here if you need me."

"I do need you, Gil. But not to pay the bills."

Gil drove Matt to school—he had bought a motorcycle , which he was quite proud of—and promised to meet him later for lunch. He stopped in a courtyard. "You've got a midterm today, don't you?" Matt nodded. He was about to walk away, wishing Gil a good-day, when Gil grabbed his forearm. In a playful flourish he dipped Matt, supporting his weight, and kissed him tenderly, like a fairytale knight: "Good luck, birdie. I'll be waiting for you when you're done. Maybe I'll serenade you," he teased.

Matt smiled. "Please don't." But he couldn't quell the butterflies in his stomach or his racing heartbeat. He couldn't _not_ feel overwhelmed when he looked into Gil's pretty wine-red eyes, so foolishly in love. It was thrilling. The heartache he had felt so constantly only months ago was gone, replaced with something better. His German lover had been right: _It can always get better_.

 _Better than this_ —? Matt thought, kissing Gil. _I doubt it._

"Ich liebe dich, Mattie."

"I love you too, Gil."

* * *

 **ENDE**

 **THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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